


That Scottish Play

by pastel_didactic



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Has A Palace, Akechi Goro Lives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee Dad Sakura Sojiro, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Parent Sakura Sojiro, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I may break it but I sure as hell fix it, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lady Macbeth Syndrome at work, M/M, Recurring Nightmares, texting the dead as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel_didactic/pseuds/pastel_didactic
Summary: Akira’s attention snaps back to Morgana, the sharp smell of rust and failure stinging at his nose. “What?”Morgana looks at him like he’s an idiot, and perhaps he’s right. “You zoned out! I’ve been calling for you, but you didn’t respond. Are you okay?” Akira thinks back to black, dark roasted coffee with two cubes of sugar, chess matches that were more metaphorical than competitive, and a desperate look in blood red eyes as everything fell apart between them.“Yeah. I’m fine.”In which Goro has a Palace that Akira only sees in his nightmares. But to get to the top, Akira has to process his own grief.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 62
Kudos: 298





	1. Dilapidated

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOOO BUDDY I was gone for a while! :D 
> 
> I got a new job, and the hours are very difficult to manage. I've also been very, very depressed and getting up the energy to write has been very difficult. I'm also suffering pretty badly from writer's block. I SWEAR I have not forgotten about Letters, I just genuinely hit a really large wall with it. I'm hoping writing this story will get me over my block. Please let me know what you think! This is definitely a different kind of story than what I've written in the past, and I genuinely hope you all enjoy it! :D 
> 
> WARNING! This story contain graphic descriptions of nightmares, violence, and general suffering. Please be advised that this chapter is meant to BE scary. If you're scared or anxious, then I did my job. As the chapters progress, some will be scary and others will not be. I'll be sure to leave warnings as I go. 
> 
> ALSO WARNING! This chapter has allusions to child abuse to a child in foster care. I know that has the potential to trigger some people close to me, so I'm leaving this warning here just in case.

When Akira first returned home from his time in Tokyo, all his parents did was ignore him. They didn’t ask if he needed help unpacking, or if he needed help carrying anything up to his room. That was fine- they didn’t ask if he needed help packing up to leave, either. He didn’t expect them to do or say anything, though in light of his last year’s experiences, he’d consider that to be perhaps a little disheartening. His mother looked up at him with eyes full of disdain. That seemed to be the only expression she had these days when she looked at him. But this expression was pointed decidedly over his left shoulder, and Akira knew what was coming next. 

“We won’t be taking care of _that_ for you,” She sneered at he and Morgana both, and his father simply sighed and shook his head as he continued reading the newspaper. 

Akira only shrugged, and he continued upstairs to his room. 

That was fine. Akira wasn’t expecting them to take care of anything. He sat the box down on the floor next to his door and reached for the knob of his bedroom door. Taking a deep breath in, Akira pushed the knob down and opened the door. 

Akira wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this about equated to whatever expectations he’d set for himself. A year’s layer of dust had settled onto everything in his room, including the sheets and all of his books. Morgana’s ears flattened against his head and he tilted his head to bump comfortingly against Akira’s head behind his ear. Containing a sigh so loud it could be heard downstairs, Akira turned down the hall and opened the tiny closet between his parent’s room and the bathroom. He grabbed the mop, bucket, floor soap, polish, and duster with a little bit of a bitter feeling rising up his throat. They couldn’t even be bothered to take care of his things after _they_ sent him away to Tokyo? Really? He could hear a voice in his head- a ghost, clicking its tongue and saying something cross about the very aspect of parenting. Akira shuddered and shook his head. He can’t focus on that when he has a job to do, or the room will never get clean. Akira stopped in the bathroom long enough to fill the bucket in the bathtub and brought everything back to his room. 

Akira threw open his two windows and cleaned the dust off the desk first so Morgana had somewhere to sit. “Akira… Have your parents always been like this,” Morgana asked, curling his tail around his legs where he sat and tilted an ear flat so he could hear if either of Akira’s parents came up the stairs, “No offense, but I wasn’t expecting this kind of welcome for you.” 

He thought back to ice cream on hot summer days, small gifts for good grades, and homemade cookies. 

“No. They haven’t.” 

Of all the people affected by the massive change of heart Akira and the rest of the Phantom Thieves enacted the previous year, Akira hoped beyond hope that his parents were among them. They weren’t always like this. They used to be loving and doting parents, doing their best to encourage Akira through schooling. The night before the… incident, they had gone out to a family dinner, with his father’s boisterous laughter and his mother’s witty jokes. Once that gavel came down, however, their entire demeanor changed in regards to him. At first, they simply argued. Why? _Why_? Why did he do such a thing? How could he ruin the good name of their family? Why didn’t he just mind his own business? They said things to him that he wished he had never heard, and when they kicked him out for the duration of his probation, Akira wondered if it was more of a blessing than a curse. 

Cleaning his room took a few hours. There was a lot of dust, and Akira had quite a few books that now had dust caked between the pages. His parents had already left for work, so he had the house entirely to himself. Music played softly from one of the many radio apps on his phone and he worked well into the afternoon. He washed his sheets, dusted, mopped and polished his floor, unpacked, and broke down his moving boxes for recycling. It felt strange to be home again after so long, and even stranger to no longer be welcome in the place he once called home. This house had a much different air than Leblanc, which felt warm and loving the second he stepped in the door. His room there was so dusty. Akira didn’t mind so much, but Kawakami did. Even despite his best efforts to dust, she would always complain that the dust had somehow _multiplied_ when neither of them were looking. Ann said something similar, too, and…

Akira stopped mopping and Morgana lifted his head from his paws where he had curled up for a nap. “... Are you alright?” 

_“Honestly, do you even_ know _how to dust? I hope no one’s allergic.”_

“Akira…?”

_“So this is your room? It looks… quaint.”_

“Hey!” 

_“Make me a promise, won’t you? You won’t say no, right?”_

“Joker!” 

Akira’s attention snapped back to Morgana, the sharp smell of rust and failure stinging at his nose. “What?” Morgana looked at him like he was an idiot, and perhaps he was right. “You zoned out! I’ve been calling for you, but you didn’t respond. Are you okay?” Akira thought back to black, dark roasted coffee with two cubes of sugar, chess matches that were more metaphorical than competitive, and a desperate look in blood red eyes as everything fell apart between them. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” 

Akira hadn’t been sleeping well lately. He was usually not prone to nightmares. Or dreams at all, really. But ever since the Metaverse collapsed, he’d been having the absolute worst time staying asleep. When he did sleep, he’d have awful nightmares that he never remembered in the morning. Akira was pretty sure he hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since October, and it was now the middle of March. To that end, Akira had acquired some over the counter sleep aids. Harmless little melatonin gummies that help him stay asleep. He had been sleeping rather decently on them, even though he did wake up two or three times throughout the night. Tonight, however, Akira expected this to be different. He’d been using the gummies at Leblanc with relative success, but this wasn’t Leblanc. This was his family home, where he was no longer welcome. An alien place that should feel familiar where there was very little comfort anymore. Akira didn’t expect to have a good night’s rest at all. Much to his surprise, however, once he fell asleep, not only did he stay asleep, but he dreamed as well. 

In front of Akira was a relatively small building. It looked old, as though it had been abandoned for twenty years, and all the windows were boarded up against any curious passerby. It was a Western-style house, Akira deduced after a while of trying to suss out through the grime, broken siding, and torn down porch. From the outside, the house appeared to be two floors plus an attic space, but every inch of that house felt imposing. Maybe it was haunted? Bushes were overgrown, and vines of roses had sealed the front door. The house almost looked to be too large for the space it was in, pressing on the boundaries of his dreamscape like this structure was meant to be so much larger, but wasn’t. 

Curious as any one thief could be, Akira shifted his way around to the back of the building. Damage was littered throughout- shingles had slid off the roof to shatter on the ground, pieces of the rain gutter had dropped off the roof to dangle helplessly off the side. The house appeared to have been white in color at one point, or perhaps a very pale yellow, but it was difficult to tell. The entire house was covered from roof to foundation in a thick layer of grime that obscured any kind of color recognition. The sides were covered in green- from the overgrown bushes to the weathering of the house. It would take more than one pass of a pressure washer to get that off, or perhaps it would be best to just take it all off the house and install new. When Akira rounded the entire house to what would have been the backyard, he saw nothing too much out of the ordinary. He found a small swing set, some toys, a sandbox. Kids had lived here at one point, and if Akira was right in his estimate judging by the amount of toys, the family who lived here had more than one child. Or at least, one _very_ spoiled child.

The back porch was just as bad as the front, except the door had been entirely boarded off as well as the windows. There wasn’t any getting in this way. Shrugging his shoulders, Akira made to move around the building back to the front, when something caught his eye. A flickering of white, the drift of fabric. Someone was here. “Excuse me,” Akira called, chasing after the spectre with bare feet. He dodged some fallen siding and came back to the front of the building to find that the person he had seen was gone, but the front door was open and strained against the rose bush that held it closed. Tension coiled in Akira’s shoulders; this was very quickly becoming something out of a nightmare, and he didn’t trust it. Drifting outside from somewhere in the house was the sound of the TV, and distantly Akira remembered that song. 

It was the Featherman opening theme. 

He remembered it from the handful of times Futaba had wrangled him into her computer chair to watch it with her. All other sounds around him seemed to stop. Even his footsteps against the grass, or the creaking of the old wood as he hefted himself up onto the moldy, wooden porch. His pajamas catch on the rose thorns, but his eyes were plastered to that door, and the sound coming from within. Deciding against the single-most cliche thing every horror story has ever done, Akira didn’t call out and instead put his hand on the doorknob. If he tugged hard enough he might be able to break the vines blocking his way. Right as he tensed his wrist and prepared to tug, the roses all… withered and died. Every last one thinned out and aged like a snap frost had rolled through, turning them brown and sickly. It took extremely little effort for Akira to pull on the doorknob and cut through the vines. They practically disintegrated as they fell. With the door wide open, and a clear view of the inside visible to Akira’s eyes, he was only further confused. 

The inside of the house was _pristine_. Clean walls and shining floors, a bucket and a washcloth next to a space where some industrious child had drawn in crayon a happy family of a mother and a father, five children, and a dog. Five kids..? Akira stepped up from the mudroom onto the clean, hardwood floor, and felt something tense slide down his spine. A foreboding anxiety gripped him from the shoulders. All of a sudden, Akira couldn’t move his body. He fought against it, trying to turn his head or lift his arms, but he couldn’t. He was rooted directly to his spot. Fear gripped his heart white-hot in clawed fingers and tugged downwards somewhere by his stomach as a feminine voice said, low and quiet, full of murderous intent: 

“ _Don’t you dare sully my floor._ ” 

Just like that, he could move again, and Akira stumbled forward and flat onto his ass as he turned to look at whatever was behind him. 

He found only air.

Panting heavy breaths, Akira sat up with the intention to stand and in the doing of that, looked down at his feet. Where his feet were once bare were pink guest slippers. Oh. Akira didn’t think that mattered in a dream, and it seemed as though the world around him was willing to punish him for his thoughtlessness. He stood on shaking legs as his adrenaline tried to mellow out after such a scare and he took stock of the rest of the house. In front of him was a staircase leading upstairs, and just at the bottom of that staircase was a hallway going right. There were three doors that he could see, one on the right wall and two on the left. On this floor next to the stairs appeared to be the back door, boarded up from the outside but clean within. There was an under-the-stairs storage space, a door to his left, and an archway that led to the rest of the house. The noise from the TV was coming from that direction, so Akira assumed that was where the kitchen and living room were located. 

Deciding to go for the closest door first, Akira tried the knob to the door on his left and finds the handle wouldn’t so much as budge. It was like the door was more of a decoration than a functional object. He tried every single door on this floor that way. When the first door to the left in the hallway opened up Akira felt a rush of excitement. But that was quickly dashed and he sighed as he only found a bathroom. Both of the other doors in the hall were the same, and he found a mirror at the end of the hall. Large and square, with a kind of frosted silver frame. 

It was strange- when he first looked down this hall, Akira could have sworn he hadn’t seen a mirror. 

That familiar anxiety welled up in his chest, and he backed away from the reflective surface. Akira didn’t trust it, and somewhere in his mind he recalled a saying about the things mirrors reflect only being half true. It’s only at the end of the hall that he turned back around, and he faced the only place on this floor he hadn’t searched: the living room. He entered the space cautiously, since it seemed this entire house was haunted, and was greeted by the unsurprising sight of the open kitchen and the living room. 

Featherman was playing on the TV and he found that he's a little proud of himself to have remembered the theme. Playing on the TV was an episode featuring Grey Pigeon, which was one of the few Featherman characters Akira actually liked. Though the TV was playing, no one was around to watch it… except maybe the ghosts? But no one visible, at least. The open kitchen was odd, to him, and he approached it carefully. The cabinets all had child-proof locks on the doors, and the refrigerator was closed with a _padlock_. Never before in his life had Akira seen a refrigerator that required a four digit number to _unlock_. In this pristine and cared for home, even despite the ghost, that was the most subtly eerie thing Akira had ever seen. The implications alone caused a strange, unsettling feeling in his gut. 

“ _What are you doing in my house?_ ” Akira’s head shot up at the words, but looking around the room told him he was very much alone. 

“ _Are you here to see the boy?_ ” The voice sounded ragged, aged, like it was speaking through bubbling water. “ _Such a shame to hear what happened to him and his mother...I heard none of his relatives wanted him, either. Such a quiet boy._ ” The voice was ubiquitous, the same woman echoing over and over again saying different things. Akira realized very quickly that this woman was not speaking to him at all, and perhaps never had been. 

“ _How ungrateful! How dare you- after I took you in, fed you, clothed you- this is how you behave!? I can see now why no one wanted you!_ ” 

“ _If you’re quiet for the social workers tonight, you’ll all have dinner._ ” 

“ _If you’re going to take him from this house, don’t bring him back until morning_.” 

“ _Funny, you don’t look like a social worker._ ” 

“ _Didn’t you ever hear about that one’s mother? Killed herself so she didn’t have to deal with him. Can’t say I blame her._ ” 

A funny feeling settled in Akira’s stomach: the hunch of suspicion. An orphan, passed to a foster family who abused him, unwanted by relatives and a mother that committed suicide. Akira could think of none other that fit the bill. This woman was talking about Goro, and not kindly at all. Then again, in his rather limited experience in Goro’s company, Akira had noticed that not a single person ever said a kind word about the _real_ Akechi Goro in life. Not even him. 

For all that Akira tried to be Goro’s friend, apart from reminding him Goro _had_ a friend, Akira never really complimented him in a way that said he meant it. He never told Goro he wanted him around, he never managed to pry off that mask even a little. At least, that’s what he thought. Maybe he was wrong? Akira wasn’t sure which was worse: To be right, and realize that Goro never trusted him from the start, or to be wrong, and realize that he was too blind to see Goro reaching out for his help. 

Either way, Akira felt very guilty. 

A loud shattering sound knocked Akira out of his thoughts. 

“ _ **Listen to me!**_ ” 

With a mighty, ghostly roar, plates flung out of glass cabinets and crashed onto the floor in front of Akira. He backed up and turned to the left to see that the TV was flipping through channels at random. The news flew by, a nature channel, more cartoons, until settling on a black screen on a blank channel. Oh, _hell_ no. 

True to Akira’s expectations, an eye opened on the TV screen, brown and bloodshot. 

“ _I see you, Kurusu Akira._ ” 

Akira immediately turned on his heel. Oh no, that shit can happen in a horror movie with no problem, but the moment something like that says his _name_ , Akira is _gone_. He dashed down the hall towards the door. He admittedly was not optimistic, but he was going to try. Sure enough, the door was fixed shut. It wasn’t even that the door was locked. It wouldn’t even budge. It was like the door was frozen in time, attached to the wall. He tries to open the window next to the door- a fruitless effort. 

Looking around, Akira caught sight of a small, round side table. It was small enough for him to lift, but thick enough to probably break a window. He picked it up and hefted it off to the side and brought it around to crash into the glass of the window. No luck- the wood all but bounced off the glass as if made of rubber. Akira cursed under his breath as the very daylight started melting out of the house. He turns back towards the hall and the stairs, and something made him freeze. His legs locked into place from the knees and the very hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. Several hours passed in seconds and he could see movement in the living room. Something was coming after him in the dimming light of his surroundings. He could barely see it, a stumbling form of a woman. A long, bloodstained skirt, and an ominous dripping sound. Something dark and wet collecting under the shuffling feet of the spectre. Akira forced his legs to move and raced to the right down the hall. There was only one door left open in this house, and that was the bathroom. 

As soon as Akira was through the door, he shut and locked it behind him. There was no way out of this house- there was no way to escape whatever it was creeping down the hall towards him. All he could do was stay here and wait for either death or freedom. It was all he could do. 

The bathroom was well-lit and cheery in contrast to the hell happening outside this room. An overhead light brightly detailed a tall, wooden cabinet filled with towels and extra soaps, a mirror over the sink unit, a toilet, and a bathtub. Akira backed himself into the bathtub, breathing heavily in an attempt to catch his breath before he could be heard. His hands held onto the smooth, pristine side, and his grip made a tiny squeak as his fingers dragged against the porcelain. Darkness melted under the door frame, like the shadows themselves were alive. Akira clasped a hand over his mouth to reduce the sound of his breathing, and even tried holding his breath. Panic planted itself deep between his lungs. The light overhead flickered. He heard shuffling, and groaning. 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The sound was almost sickening in and of itself, a muffled, dull, and heavy drip against the carpeted hall. A weighted, moist sound as droplet after droplet met the fibers of the carpet. Each tiny sound rang as loud as thuds in Akira’s ears, and if he focused hard enough he could almost swear to feeling the vibrations of each droplet. Nothing existed but that noise, his ears rang in the silence that pervaded between each drop. The ice cold porcelain under him sank through his pajamas and tingled at his skin. 

“ _What do you think you’re doing…?_ ”

She was getting closer. Akira prayed this ghost wasn’t very observant. That bright light must look like a beacon under the door. He should have turned the light off! Shit! He was going to be found and that ghost was going to do gods know what to him and there was no escape! No windows or doors would open other than this door. Maybe he could escape out the second floor? Was he really so desperate that he could jump from the second floor onto the grass below and probably break a bone in his leg on impact this wasn’t the Metaverse where he could jump so high or fall so far without damage or fear and-

“ _Do you honestly think you’ll proceed?_ ”

She groaned like she was speaking through a fan, garbled and slow. Akira shrank back as she got closer. The porcelain creaked under his weight and Akira felt his heart jump into his throat. She could hear that. There was no way she couldn’t hear that echo off the tiled walls over the sound of her rattling breath _just down the hall_! There was a horrific, spine-tingling slurping sound coming from somewhere on the other side of that door and Akira had to swallow down his own shuddering cringe. 

“ _What makes you think you belong here? Always helping everyone else. What makes you feel like you’re **welcome here**?_”

Her feet stop shuffling at the door. She’s right there! Akira can see her shadow, feel her presence, just on the other side of that door! The bathroom felt cold. Cold and unfeeling. The temperature easily dropped several degrees just by her standing out there. A strange smell prods at his nose. He has smelled this before- sharp and imposing. For the life of him, he cannot remember from _where_ he knew it. It’s a dense stench, heavy in his nose. Moldy. A faint copper undertone, an almost wet smell bouncing off the cold porcelain of the bathtub. He wanted to gag- it almost smelled like a bloated corpse.

Akira felt like his lungs were drowning in it. 

Time felt frozen. Akira forgot how to breathe. He couldn’t remember actually being this scared. Not even fighting god felt this terrifying. Seconds ticked by into minutes, and minutes drew on like molasses. An eternity found its space cut into a handful of minutes. Akira had lost count of how much time he spent, staring at the doorknob and praying it didn’t move. He glued his eyes to the silver of that door knob and he watched. It was a frosted texture, like the mirror outside, and seemed to shine under the bright light of the bathroom. Wasn’t that light brighter than it was before…? This tiny, bright bastion in spite of the darkness outside felt so isolating. Akira felt so alone, tucked away in what had to have been the last safe place in the _world_. The one safe place away from the ghost standing just outside the door. He could faintly see the pink of her slippers under the door. Chills raced down Akira’s spine and he could feel every single thing touching his skin. His pajamas felt too tight and the slippers too abrasive, the sweat dripping down the back of his neck chilled as the room got colder and the porcelain under him refused to retain heat. Each breath that snuck through sounded thunderous and as if through a microphone to his ears. It had been silent for so long, that when she spoke again, Akira flinched.

“ _Mirror, mirror… on the wall…_ ”

There was a shuffling as the ghost walked away, and she took the smell with her. Akira was grateful. It was acrid and overbearing. It was familiar, for all the wrong reasons. He still couldn’t figure out what it was. After a few minutes, the darkness left too, and the shuffling stopped. She was gone. Akira melted against the side of the bathtub, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Akira could almost physically feel the moment she disappeared, and that was when he stood. 

Akira climbed out of the bathtub and took a moment to collect himself. He didn’t dare risk turning on the water faucet, despite wanting to splash cold water on his face. There was no telling if that woman was still listening for him. So he put either hand on the sides of the sink and sighed, dropping his head to breathe. Okay. So this space was connected to Goro somehow. The Featherman TV show, the talk about a social worker. The drawing on the wall. This was one of Goro’s foster homes, when he was a child. 

Why was Akira seeing this…? Why-

Akira looks down at his foot before he can finish that thought. A black liquid was seeping into the bathroom from under the door. The dripping sound… Black liquid… 

A cracking sound filled his ears, and his heart dropped into his stomach. 

What _now_? 

Akira looked up, and found Joker staring back at him in the mirror. A crack had cut into the glass, spider-webbing out with a sound that put chills between Akira’s shoulders. 

“ **So, you’re here.** ” 

“Where am I…?” Because if he can’t talk to himself, then what’s the point of his own dreams? Joker frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, “ **You’re having your worst nightmare. Can’t you tell?** ” 

“I can tell I’m having a _bad_ nightmare.” “ **You are. But you know what makes it your _worst_?**” 

“No.” Akira was afraid to ask what could possibly make it qualify as such. Joker smirked- that devilish, wild thing Akira remembered making when he felt particularly violent. 

“ **Me.** ” 

Akira jerked awake so harshly he actually sat up in bed. Frantically, he grabbed his phone and tapped through the contacts with shaking fingers. He scrolled and scrolled through his history until he found the one number in his phone he never had the heart to delete. _Goro._

His heart leapt in his throat and beat a staccato tune against his jugular. Akira can feel each individual bead of sweat on his forehead as it almost tickles and drips down his face. His thumb hovers over the text bubble icon. It’s irrational. It’s… insane. Goro is _dead_. He isn’t coming back. No matter how many times Akira has sought a quiet place to shed his tears and wring his hair about it- Akechi Goro died last November. No matter how heavy his heart ached. 

It was… irrational. 

Akira’s fingers type, and he sent it away without a word to a phone that will never receive his message. Akira drops back onto the bed and curls onto his side. Thankfully, Morgana slept through it all, curled up on the end of his bed. Akira resigned himself to not being able to sleep through tonight, and thought of black leather gloves, a dangerous smirk, and all the conceivable ways one could possibly ask for forgiveness.


	2. Seven Hundred and Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up being seventeen pages long. 
> 
> I have.... much to say. 
> 
> I'm still not much better off, but writing this story is kind of helping. I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> Please tell me what you think :D

Chapter Two: Seven Hundred and Twenty

Akira watched the dawn breach his window. Through the blinds came a muted blue, and from thence into daylight. Slowly, yet… faster than expected. The sunrise always perplexed Akira, whenever he stayed up so late. The sun was so big, and matter in space moved so slowly it was hard to think that so little sunlight was required to move the world from darkness into that blue phase of the dawn, and then into actual sunlight. When the world was still quiet, and he could swear that no one else in the world was awake but him, the minutes drew on so slowly that his thoughts all seemed to race in between the minutes. What does one think, when they’re lying alone in bed at night, unable to find sleep? What does one tell themselves, to occupy the time? 

For Akira, it isn’t so simple. He supposed someone else could just pick up their phone and scroll mindlessly through social media or read stories posted on the internet. But Akira had tried all of that, and nothing had occupied his mind well enough to allow time to pass quickly. Instead, he was left with the slow drag of seconds to minutes to hours, time melting and disappearing into the void. Leaving Akira alone with his thoughts. 

Morgana slept peacefully at the foot of his bed. Akira couldn’t listen to his playlists or play anything with noise, for fear of waking him. So Akira laid there in silence, and eventually he did pick up his phone. He stared at the screen, and the red and black zig-zag of his chat history, and he read. He read over the last thing this number ever texted him, and the slowly growing list of unread texts Akira had been sending since he woke up from his nightmare. He added one more to the pile, and then another. Then another. 

Then another. 

There are several things that Akira wished he could say. In a perfect world, in a world without Persona and expectations and targets, what could have happened? What would have happened? They probably would have never met- and that was the saddest thought Akira had ever had. If nothing else, if absolutely _nothing_ else, Akira would have wanted to be Goro’s friend. His true feelings aside, he felt like they could have made great friends. If only… 

There are only so many words that can fit into a text message. Some things just have to be _said_. 

What does one say to the dead, when the dead can’t hear? 

How many times can Akira lay here and beg the powers that be to give him back the one thing he wanted for himself? 

Seven hundred and twenty times an hour, as it turns out, for the five seconds it takes. He even counts. 

Akira has never been in a situation where he has had to process his grief. He has never lost an immediate family member that he really knew, he has never been to a funeral. Perhaps one could say he’s lucky. But in this case, Akira would beg to differ. He had been left to process Goro’s death alone, with no one to talk to besides Morgana, who just did not understand. He couldn’t talk about it in front of the others. His best bet may have been Sojiro, but with everything else going on that Sojiro had a hard time grasping, he didn’t want to add more to that. So Akira suffers in silence with the heaviest burden he has ever had to bear: the death of the one he loved the most. 

Akira _has_ shed tears for Goro. In front of a shop window near Christmas, when Morgana has stayed with Futaba or Haru prior to infiltrating Mementos the last time, when he’s alone in the bathroom. Akira would be a liar if he said he hadn’t shed at least a pool of tears for the boy that once was Akechi Goro. 

It’s not as though he wasn’t bothered by the plot Akechi set against him. It’s one thing to love someone who harbors so much rage and bitterness towards the world. It’s another thing entirely to love someone who full-on planned to kill you. Though… Something told Akira there was more to that than meets the eye. 

It didn’t make any sense. None whatsoever. They’d gotten along pretty well, Akira understood where the mask ended and Akechi Goro began. He teased Goro about it by being stubborn about his own mask, and Goro was aware of it as far as he could tell. They had built up this back and forth of the both of them trying to see which one would crack first under the continued teasing of the other. Akira thought they had _actually_ managed to get somewhere and develop something that was adjacent to a friendship. 

Akira wanted _more_. 

But then everything fell apart, and Akira couldn't stop it. Goro slipped through his fingers like sand and all of a sudden Goro killed a shadow version of him in the interrogation room, and fought them tooth and nail in Shido’s Palace. It didn’t make _any_ sense. It was like something out of both of their control. There at the end, Goro seemed like he didn’t want to hurt him, either. It seemed like he’d finally gotten through to Goro at the very last second, or at least he had _already_ gotten through to Goro, and Goro was able to push all that aside for whatever reason for just a little while.

But it didn’t matter now. No one would ever know Akechi Goro’s motives. What matters is that it happened, and one of the last memories Akira has associated with the one he loved were wild eyes and almost getting run through on his sword. It didn’t make _any sense_. 

The blue light that filtered into his room turned into daylight. Akira sent off one more text message as Morgana carefully lifted his head and yawned. “Good morning,” he grumbled, looking for all the world like he needed an hour or two of more sleep, “How did you sleep?” 

Akira only shrugged. 

Today he was somehow lucky enough to find that his parents were out once he came down the stairs. He isn’t sure if it was a bad thing that he felt relieved for that. In the back of his mind, he could see the frown as if he were looking right at it. He could see the downward pull of soft-looking lips so well Akira could probably calculate their angle of descent. Somewhere in the distance, where his ears can only barely reach, he could hear it: something cross about his parents and how it wasn’t what he expected. Somehow, people keep saying that. Akira must somehow give off the vibe that his parents are good people, because at one point they were. At one point, not too far in the past, they were the best people Akira knew. Not so much anymore. Not since he was arrested, and gave the family a bad name. 

Country towns talk. Word spreads almost as soon as something happens. Akira’s hometown was so small and tucked away that just about everyone in the community knew the Kurusu family. So when the rumor spread- “Oh, I heard that the Kurusu boy assaulted a man in the street last week,” and, “The Kurusu’s son was convicted of _assault_! He was such a well-behaved boy, too…” His parents began getting strange looks at the grocery store, out on the streets, and at work. His father was approached by his boss about setting Akira straight and improving his behavior. A few days after that he was expelled from school and his parents told him he was going to be living with some guy in Shibuya for the rest of his probation. 

They didn’t even _know_ Sojiro. They were just friends with one of his regulars. 

“ _Can you imagine sending your only child to live with a complete stranger just because they couldn’t stand the gossip? Hmph. Maybe you and I just weren’t cut out to have a good parenting experience._ ” 

Akira’s hair at the back of his neck stood on end, and his skin prickled with goosebumps. Had he just heard, clear as day in his ear..? “Goro…?”

Silence. 

Of course. 

Part of him wanted to scramble, to hold onto the sound of that voice so he’ll never lose it. He won’t ever hear it again, after all. But it’s gone, almost as if it never was, and Akira is left in silence again. Akira sighed heavily. He must have imagined that. There was no possible way that was _actually_ Goro, and Akira knew that. 

Deciding to go about his day, Akira made himself something to eat. His fingers itch to reach for potatoes, carrots, and about eight different spices. Instead he reaches for eggs, ketchup, and rice, and somehow he feels _wrong_. He’s making omurice without chicken, mostly out of laziness, and he likes omurice. But it isn’t _curry_. He’s had curry every day for the last year to start his day and end it, sometimes somewhere in between, too. This isn’t the same painstakingly crafted breakfast Sojiro made for him every morning. He has the recipe, but his parents don’t have the ingredients. Akira has the feeling that if he ate Sojiro’s curry right now, he’d be feeling a lot worse- Akira’s curry is just not as good. It needs to come from the source. 

He eats half of the omurice before deciding he just can’t anymore, and dumps it into the trash. 

His hometown is very small and far into the country. In the way of entertainment, it has an arcade and a movie theatre, and that’s about it. The closest large city was Osaka, and that was about an hour away by train. Ryuji used to pick on his country accent all the time, as it would come out the most when he was frustrated or tired. 

There was one memorable moment, in Sae’s Palace… 

No. 

No, he won’t think about that. He won’t think about the recognition and playful smile that reached wine-red eyes. He won’t think about the devious plotting of things to get him to say and ensuing jokes made at his expense in private. He won’t think about that _laugh_. He can’t afford to think about it. Not anymore. 

Not when every private moment making fun of how he said things and Goro’s clumsy efforts to repeat the accent made his heart swell. How fun it was, just the two of them, forgetting the heist and the demons at their door. 

“Hey, Akira,” Morgana’s voice jolts him out of his stupor. 

“Yeah…?” 

“I’ve never seen you throw away food before this. Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” It was nice that Morgana cared, his ears lowering until flat on his fluffy head. When Akira tells him he’s fine, he can tell Morgana doesn’t believe him. 

Akira showered and dressed casually enough for just wandering around town. Jeans, t-shirt, and the infamous grey hoodie. It was inconspicuous enough for Shibuya, and even Yongen-Jaya, where there were so many people who just _didn’t care_ who he was. But by now, the whole town had heard about his return. Akira leaves the house and hopes to walk around, visiting all the places he missed on the handful of times he was homesick. 

One would think that a sixteen, seventeen year old tossed into a stranger’s house for an entire year would miss home more. But with the Phantom Thieves and everything that had happened, he just wasn’t focused on it. He was too worried about surviving school, supplying his team, their targets in Mementos. _Goro_. 

But now that he _was_ home, he found there were actually quite a few places he missed. Granted, most of them were places to eat, but he missed them nonetheless. Akira walked around town, Morgana perched on his shoulder from inside his bag, and did most of the things he wanted to do while he was away. 

He stopped off at the small arcade in town. It wasn’t exactly large or extravagant, but it was pretty decent for an arcade in a small place like this. The arcade was fashioned out of an old convenience store building that had long since been out of business. If one looked closely enough, one could still see the old, faded paint from where the sign used to be but was covered up with the arcade’s logo. The arcade was owned by a family that had lived here for a very long time. Upon entering the establishment, Akira noticed it was the son working today. They exchanged surprised waves- Akira could remember when that boy was in his class. 

So much could change within a year. 

Akira maneuvered himself to the Gun About unit in the back. This unit was a new installation when he was arrested. Now it’s seen some use, as the most modern game in the building. The blue and green paint was slightly wearing off the grips and the triggers. Looking at the high scores displayed happily on the screen, Akira frowned. 

1\. KNG

2\. JKR

That little shit. 

Morgana guffawed from inside his bag, “Shinya beat your score! That’s rude of him, isn’t it?” Akira made a noise of agreement and fished some yen out of his pocket. Spending his hard-earned heist money just to beat a child at an arcade game. 

Akira could hear a snort in the back of his head, and a laugh he had never heard before, in a voice he most certainly had. Light, airy, and the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. It made Akira think of the wind chime that had hung in his dusty window dancing in a cool summer breeze as sunlight poured in from the open window. The corners of his eyes sting as he inserts yen into the token exchange machine.

Retrieving some tokens, Akira inserted the required amount into the machine. He’d gotten better at Gun About since he first started, and he owed a lot of that to Shinya’s efforts to teach him how to properly play the game. Akira was always indifferent to the fact that a middle schooler was quintessentially teaching him how to fire a fake gun in the Metaverse. As it happens, that isn’t exactly a socially acceptable thing to say to someone else. So Akira didn’t really talk about it. He doesn’t think he’s told anyone that Shinya had been his instructor, and they had used an arcade game for practice. 

But then, Shinya Oda was not the only person he had ever played Gun About with, was he?

After a while of playing and earning back his high score, the screen suddenly divided in half. The boy from the counter had come over and inserted a token into the machine on Player 2’s side. 

“Hey, man.” 

“... Hey.” 

Akira can’t really remember this boy’s name. They’d never been friends, or even acquaintances. Akira only really knew him because his family owns this arcade. Itsuki, the back of his brain supplied. His name was Itsuki. Akira’s mind worked to come up with his family name, but it wasn’t coming to him. Silence stretched between them as the opening sequence of Gun About played on their shared screen.

“I heard what happened last year. We all did,” he started off, which was not the best way to begin this conversation and he seemed to know it, “I mean, I always thought it was bullshit. A good number of kids in class said it was wrong. A petition went around. It… didn’t help, though. I’m sorry.” 

Akira didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He focused on their game. Itsuki was pretty good, probably by virtue of always having the game handy to play when they were slow or he was bored. They talked a little about last year. Itsuki caught him up on things that happened in school, Akira talked briefly about what it was like to live in Shibuya. The differences between their tiny country town and a big city. How apparently their region has an accent. 

“So Honda and Satoshi got together- absolutely _no one_ was expecting it. You can only _imagine_ what the principal said when they were busted making out in the gym supply room.” 

“Were they expelled?” Because their principal was _like that_. 

“Nah- they were given cleaning duty for a week and told never to do it again. I know- I was shocked too.” 

The world was moving on, and maybe that was the fruit of the Phantom Thieves’ efforts. Maybe that’s what it means to change the hearts of the public. Akira wasn’t sure. He could hope, though. He could hope that their efforts meant something, and that they actually made an impact. That what that impact cost them, cost _him_ , wasn’t wasted. 

It was a surprisingly good conversation, and certainly one Akira wasn’t expecting to have with an old classmate. By the time they slid their guns into the ports to end the game, an hour had passed, and more guests had filtered into the arcade. “It’s good to see you, man,” Itsuki said, “Take care of yourself.” 

On the way out, Akira was stopped by something that caught his eye. An array of colors in a claw machine, and he doesn’t know what possessed him to go check it out before he left. It was a claw machine filled with Featherman figures. Small ones, but limited ones from an old popup store. There was a gold variant of Red Hawk in there, and Akira saw it, and knew what he must do. 

Futaba would _never_ forgive him. 

It takes a few tries, and by his fourth token, he’s walking out of the arcade with the prize. But that wasn’t the only prize he had won out of the machine. When the claw picked up the Red Hawk variant box, it knocked another off a pile and into the prize chute. Akira was shocked the claw didn’t drop the box it had claimed, but now Akira had two prizes. 

One golden Red Hawk, and one Grey Pigeon. 

Of course it would. Just- of _course_ , if it were any other Featherman figure Akira would just give it to Futaba. But this _wasn’t_ just any other Featherman figure. It was Grey Pigeon. Akira’s favorite, and the one that reminded him the most of Goro. Of the Featherman characters, everyone always assumed Akira preferred Red Hawk the most. That wasn’t true. Yes, he was the leader, and Akira could relate, but he leaned more towards Grey Pigeon, especially after the newer episodes. The fans knew that Grey Pigeon was going to betray the team, but then the writers decided to make it worse. It had been revealed, much to Futuaba’s dismay, that Grey Pigeon had been experimented on in his youth. That he was chosen for something, tested, conditioned, all so he could one day betray the team as part of some plan he wasn’t even aware of at the time. The allusion was _not_ lost on Akira, and it certainly made him wonder. As things panned out with Goro, Akira kept thinking about that story, and he wondered what else about it was similar.

Akira kept the figure, in its original box, on a shelf in his room. He doesn’t think about the story behind Grey Pigeon, and all the message boards that talk about the controversy surrounding his character. Akira doesn’t think about how he liked him _because_ of his moral ambiguity, or sympathizes with him _because_ of the experiments conducted on him. He won’t let himself think that far. Instead, he sends a text message to Futaba with only a picture of the gold variant next to Akira’s face, stoic but for a peace sign he made with his fingers. 

**Taba:** OOOOOOH! YOU BETTER COME BACK AND GIVE THAT TO ME. 

**Taba:** DON’T YOU DARE STICK THAT IN THE MAIL 

**Taba:** IF THE BOX IS DAMAGED I WON’T FORGIVE YOU. 

**Taba: __** _I DEMAND A VISIT_.

**Me:** I’ll stop by tomorrow. 

**Taba:** Good! You’d better! It’s not the same here without you! >:(

Futaba was the little sister Akira never had. They felt like a family, tucked away in that tiny cafe in a quaint alley hidden from the rest of the world. It was her, Sojiro, Akira, and the family business. When it wasn’t absolute mayhem outside with Thieves business and murder plots, the cafe was so peaceful. It _was_ peace. The cafe was a safe haven that always smelled of coffee and curry. He thinks back to morning breakfasts with Sojiro flipping through the paper. He can still hear the rustling of the thin, paper pages if he focuses hard enough, and still smell the coffee. He thinks back to Futaba visiting him at random hours, usually with video games or Featherman. Even though Akira had showered this morning, he could still smell it in his hair. A strange feeling churns at his stomach and his eyes sting. Akira could sit there for hours and just remember the warm, dark wooden floors and how the dust would always settle overnight. The quiet sound of the cafe TV playing in the background. Sojiro changing the channel to a trivia game show station whenever Shido was on the TV. A friend or three taking up a booth with books and homework. Sojiro constantly telling them that one day he’ll charge them for the coffee. He never did get around to that.

Akira thought about Leblanc with a weight in his soul that felt so heavy it couldn’t be quantified. It churned with that desperate desire to see those tiny shops that lined their tiny alleyway. Like an itch that demanded to be scratched, Akira wanted to pass by the secondhand store and pick up some wire before turning down that quiet road. To see the same faces- some eventually warmed up enough to say hi as they passed. Akira wanted to be in that space. That calm peace that came from his little corner of Shibuya, and step into _home_.

Akira wanted to go home.

He passed by a fast food restaurant that _wasn’t_ Big Bang Burger and headed home. His parents must have come home at some point- the mail was on the table instead of outside in the mailbox, and a chair wasn’t pushed in all the way, but neither of them were home. A small voice in Akira’s head told him that they were avoiding him, but logically he knew they had gone to their respective jobs. His father worked late nights, and his mother even later, so it was unlikely he would see them for the rest of the day into tomorrow. 

Akira told himself that was fine.

He took his food and trudged upstairs to his room, and once there he sat his bag down and Morgana hopped out onto the bed. 

“Your town is _so_ small! It’s so quiet up here! There isn’t half as much noise here as there is in the city.” Morgana stretched his front legs, then back, and curled into a loaf with his legs tucked under him. 

“We originally moved here to get away from the city,” Akira explained quietly as he opened his bag. He pulls out the tiny box of fried chicken he bought and dug into it. Morgana talked about their day, the people they met, the looks Akira got. 

Not everyone was happy “the delinquent” was home. 

Akira understood in part- word travels fast, and at some point the truth gets turned into a slight untruth, then continues to descend until it’s just a straight-up lie. Just like the kids at Shujin calling him a violent thug who kept weapons on him and sold drugs. Akira _understood_. That didn’t mean that he liked it any better than he did at Shujin. Which is to say, not at all, but at least he bore it quietly. It was going to be difficult to bear that same scrutiny from people who have known him for almost his entire life. It felt lonely, to be ostracized by people he didn’t even know. It felt even _worse_ to walk through town today and hear people whispering behind his back about his _record_ and the _dishonor_ , and “How can the school take him back after what he’s done…?” 

Akira tossed away his food container and found himself for the fifth time today debating upon the merits of returning to Leblanc.

Akira glanced at the clock. It’s only 6:17pm. Not too late in the day, but too late to be suitable for a nap. But there was nothing else to do, and Akira felt sluggish. He felt tired, an almost bone-deep exhaustion making its home between his shoulders and in his limbs. He climbed into bed with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. He did… wake up pretty early. It only made sense that he was tired early, too. A fluffy black and white head consumed his vision. Morgana had sat himself at the head of the bed, on Akira’s pillow, and loomed over him. “You’re going to bed now..?” He looked out the window and the still dim sunlight. “I was up early today. I’m tired.” Morgana’s ears fell flat against his head and he seemed to fidget. Tiny white paws stand on his forehead, “Okay, but.. I’m waking you up for dinner!” 

A tiny part of Akira hoped Morgana would forget. 

Akira fell asleep without much effort on his part. He closed his eyes and that was that. Slowly, Akira could process mumble talking. Music. Action sounds. The sounds were distant, though. Like something had been left on in the background just for noise. Muffled consciousness came back for him, and he thought he was waking up in his own room. But he opened his eyes, and the ceiling above him was not his own. 

Akira shot up to find that he was in the living room of the house from his nightmare. The TV, which had previously been playing Featherman episodes, was now off and the room was blessedly silent. Looking around, Akira noticed that the room no longer carried such an imposing air. It felt like a living room in a house that had been freshly cleaned. The windows had been thrown open, and from the inside of the house, Akira could see blue skies and hear chirping birds. The ghost lady from before was gone without a trace. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was still wearing the clothes he wore to sleep, and a thick, dark purple blanket had been thrown over him. The blanket was made of good fabric. It was warm, and his fingers sink into the push when he touches it. Soft. So soft. The blanket smelled like something familiar. Akira initially thought that it had to be the fabric softener he uses on his clothes catching on his nose in his sleep, but when he brought the plush blanket to his nose, he found he was wrong. 

He couldn’t tell what that scent was, but it was familiar, and on the tip of his tongue. It’s _good_. It’s warm and welcoming, but also clean. It’s fresh, with a hint of spice underneath. Beyond the layers of vanilla and a light floral _something_ was a rich undertone. Akira wrapped himself up in the blanket- he’ll be taking this with him for now. For strength. Walking to the front door, Akira abandoned his slippers and put on a pair of shoes that were by the door, and very suspiciously his size. Cautiously, almost afraid of what would happen, Akira opened the front door. Despite the cheery environment of the inside of the house, outside was still the same as last night. Swirling maroon and purple darkness and a dilapidated house. It didn’t look so… grungy anymore, though. It was like someone had finished the porch, and went over with one pass of a hose from a distance. Akira stepped down from the porch onto the ground and grass crunched under his shoes. Akira inspected the rest of the house, and it looked more put together than it was last night. Shingles were replaced, that one storm drain had been repaired. The scum on the siding was slightly less thick, and less green. It was still an absolute mess, but at least it wasn’t as bad. 

The back door and windows were still boarded shut, so Akira re-entered the house from the front door. He remembered to put the slippers on this time, even though he was so generously gifted shoes. Peering down through the archway on the left side back into the living room, he found it to still be the exact same as how he left it, with the silence and the peaceful atmosphere. The drawing in crayon on the wall had been scrubbed away at some point, and the bucket was gone. Akira took this time to look around, since he didn’t get a chance last night. 

The walls were covered in pictures that always seemed to be moving, but never told a story. They were like slideshows, moving too fast to really see the faces of the people in them, but slow enough to tell they were different pictures. Some of them were family outings, and others were at… strange angles. It almost looked like they were pictures of memories from someone else's perspective, and not out of a photo album. A picture sprints by, and Akira narrowed his eyes- Had he just seen that right? He waited for that photo to come back around the sequence, and he felt as though he waited for hours before finally it happens again, and he steps backwards, away from the frame. 

That was a photo of _him_. 

Some of these were, actually. Another frame had one, and then the one next to that. All of them were different. Each one of them, though, had little details. One of them was Akira when he wasn’t looking at the subject, but staring off at something in golden light. Another was Akira behind the counter of Leblanc, making a pour-over. These were someone’s memories of him, and they all seemed happy. Akira pulled the purple blanket tighter around his shoulders like a shield, and moved onwards through the living room. 

There was a mirror in here, now. Akira doesn’t remember it being there. It’s that same, frosted silver mirror that was in the hallway. Or at least, its twin. Akira fixed his glasses over his nose and leaned in close to the frame. It didn’t look malicious, or like anyone was going to pop out of it, but after what happened last night Akira was still… hesitant. It seemed innocent enough, but Akira was going to keep his distance. 

The kitchen was still the same, but cleaner. The lock had been broken off of the fridge and pantry, the broken locks and keys laid neatly out on the island counter. Apart from the mirror’s presence, Akira dubbed the room free of evil, and resolved to make this is “ground zero” for navigating this house. Anything he found of use, he would keep here. 

Akira figured he may as well start opening doors, or at least trying to open the doors, and he did this one by one. He started at the cupboard under the stairs and pulled it. The door swung open, but the only things inside were more blankets, cleaning supplies, and a vacuum cleaner. He supposed he could put the purple blanket back in there when he was ready to put it away, but that wouldn’t happen for a while yet. Akira closed the door, and moved on into the hallway. 

Sure enough, that mirror at the end of the hall was gone. When Akira turned to see if it was the mirror in the living room was the same mirror that was once in the hall, and the mirror had vanished. It left a shape along the wall where it once hung, a dark outline that faded the more Akira stared at it. Akira was beginning to get nervous, given the last encounter he had with a mirror in this nightmare. 

His hand grasped the door to the bathroom, and when it turned in his hand, dread filled his stomach. He pushed open the door slowly, carefully, and found the bathroom to still be the bastion of light it was when he needed it, except now it was covered in glass. The mirror in this room had completely shattered. Nope, Akira refused to stay in this room any longer. He closed the door and went on his merry way. The blanket around his shoulders somehow felt more comforting, and more warm. 

He tried every door left on the first floor, and came back with only one door left open to him: The door across from the bathroom. The door seemed plain enough, not at all ominous. Not at all like it contained the sheer terror of a nightmare. Akira took a deep breath, and he opened the door. 

Inside the room was a veritable cornucopia of… nothing. 

The walls were white, the floor was white. The ceiling behind overbearing fluorescent lights was white. It was white, upon white, upon white, and in the middle of the room was a silver metal table, two chairs, and a manilla folder. The far left wall had a large mirror built into it, and just by looking at it, Akira could tell it was a two-way pane of glass. The room felt just as depressing as it was bright, and horribly sterile. The sharp stench of bleach tinged his nose and made him scrunch and hide under the plush blanket’s comforting scent. This room carried the feeling of chill, without actually being cold. Despite the warm blanket around him, Akira could feel the pricking of hair on the back of his neck and along his arms. Akira pulled the blanket tighter around him and ventures into the room. 

The door closed behind him with the softest of clicks. 

“ _What can you tell me about your home life..?_ ” 

The voices started in soft, a woman’s voice at first. She was calm, quiet. She spoke slowly, like she was talking to a child. Akira walked around the table and opened the folder. There were papers inside, and a blurry photo. The words on the page shuffle around, blurry and distorted. Akira can’t read it. There’s page upon page of what Akira assumed to be some kind of report. A file on someone. 

“ _Do you get angry often..?”_

_“Do you have trouble making friends at school?”_

_“If you had a best friend, what would you want them to be like?”_

Akira listened to what appeared to be some kind of interview, and turned the photo over in his hands. A grey background, someone in a white shirt. Brown hair…

The room suddenly felt colder. Much colder. Akira tucked the blanket tighter and buried his fingers into the soft plush. It was a chill that felt like needles, poking at his cheeks and the tip of his nose and ears with white-hot tips. The very air felt thin and white, in that fragile way a winter breeze does when it sharply cuts across bare skin. His cheeks flushed under the oppressive cold, and the sweet-smelling blanket pulsed with warmth. He buried his face into it, thankful that it was long enough to keep his entire torso warm, though his legs did suffer. He never thought he’d ever curse his own legs for being so long. 

“ _I’m going to take you to a different room today. It’s going to be a test, but don’t worry. You’re going to do fine.”_

The lights over his head flickered. 

Akira made back for the door, trying the handle, but it was frosted and frozen, and wouldn’t move an inch. Was it honestly _that cold_ in here!? He could hardly feel it because of the blanket. The table in front of him rattles, shaking on its own legs, and Akira backs up against the door. Oh, fuck, not again! There are no other doors here, no places to hide, nowhere to go if ghosts start melting through the walls or bursting through the mirrors. The manilla folder with the documents and the photo that looks so much like _him_ falls to the ground. The silver metal chairs rattle and slide out from under the table, banging into the wall so fast their legs collapse from the force and the frame dents. 

“ _Oh, you have an imaginary friend? Aren’t you too old for those…? What’s their name?_ ” 

The table shook and trembled and made the most _god awful_ sound. It was like crunching metal as the table caved in on itself with a mighty force straight through its middle. 

The lights went out.

By now, Akira was heaving breath. The two-way mirror ahead of him glowed, lending light to the room. He could see puffs of his breath like clouds of heat in front of him, and the safety lights flickered on the floor. Little LED lights between the white panels in the walls and the floor light up a blue-ish white, revealing that the furniture had all been swept away to places unknown. All that was left was a tiny photo face-down on the floor, and frost creeping in on the mirror. Ice crackled around him, but tucked into his blanket, Akira couldn’t feel the chill. He stepped up to the photo, careful not to slip on the ice in his borrowed slippers, and bent down to retrieve the tiny, square photo. 

In that photo was everything he feared. The slightly younger face of a man he could _never_ forget. 

“Goro…”

He looked a little younger than Akira remembered him. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. It was then that Akira remembered that he doesn’t _have_ any photos of Goro. There are the pictures on Goro’s food blog, but none of those were given to him by Goro, and none of the photos on his phone are pictures of Goro that Akira had taken himself. It’s one of those mistakes you make as a hindsight. One of those life-altering regrets you wish you never made, but at the time you didn’t think you’d ever live to regret it. Akira didn’t know why he pocketed the photo, but he did. 

But as he looked up to the mirror, his stomach dropped. It dropped all the way to the bottoms of his feet and made its home between the icy tiles below him. Akira could see on the other side of the mirror, the _very_ thing he’s both longed to know, and dreaded ever discovering. 

Rusted metal covered the walls, pipes stretched across the ceiling into the unknown, though Akira knew where they led. Russet light almost overpowered the blue-white LEDs lining the square room, and the frost tinged the edges of the glass, but only fogged around the middle. Akira moved his too-warm hand out from under the comfort of the blanket and brushed away the fog, and his worst fear was realized. 

There, in a purple and black heap on the oxygenized floor, was the motionless body of Akechi Goro. 

“Goro!” Akira raised his voice, somehow believing that Goro could hear him through this glass. He didn’t see any blood- is he dead? 

“ _Goro!_ Can you hear me!?” Akira banged one fist against the glass, praying. Oh god, oh god, can he hear him? He was not moving, Akira couldn’t see if he was breathing, and he’s right there all alone on the other side of the shutters! He was all alone- he died _alone_ \- Akira has to get to him! Both of his hands come up and the blanket slips from his shoulders as he thunderously pounds on the glass. 

The mirror cracks beneath his fists. 

“ _GORO_! Get up! _Please_! Get up, Goro!” The cold bites at his shoulders and works its way down his spine but it does absolutely nothing to dissuade the panic he was feeling as the only person he had ever loved lay in a crumple just beyond his reach. He pounded on the glass and shouted until he was hoarse- which, admittedly, didn’t take much. Akira was not used to raising his voice. “Please,” Akira breathed, the cold eventually settling in and making him shudder and reach for the blanket. It was still warm, somehow, warmer than it was before, or maybe that was just because he was cold. So cold his teeth chattered in his skull and his fingers felt like they couldn’t bend. He felt like the tears he had shed were frozen to his cheeks. 

He was bent down in a huddle, bundling himself up with the blanket and losing hope faster than he’s able to get it when he heard it. Muffled from the distance. Muffled from the glass. 

A shuddering, heaving, hoarse breath. 

Akira shot up so fast his vision fuzzed around the edges and the room spun. He steadies himself with one hand on the cracked glass and his brain focuses on something that single-handedly returned hope to his heart and a relieved smile on his face. Goro was _moving_. It was slow, sluggish, but he groaned and swore, and the _sound_ Akira made was a choked breath of relief. Goro’s alive. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, and Akira almost rolled his eyes. That was certainly Goro. He raised a single clawed hand to the shutter and Akira pounded on the glass again. “Hey! Over here!” He must not have heard him as he made to stand on shaking legs, and when he was stable, Goro fussed with his helmet until he peeled it off his head. He tossed it to the ground with a clang, and the light tinkle of a bullet as it bounced across the metal floor. “God _dammit_!” Goro hissed, clutching the side of his face. Akira can finally see his face, and he breathes the heaviest sigh of relief. 

The bullet had gotten caught in the space of his mask and only grazed his cheekbone. It was red and angry, bleeding and burnt, but he was _alive_. 

Wait… 

_Had Akira left Goro down there when the Palace collapsed!?_

Right as the thought left his mind, an ear-splitting groan echoed through the bowels of Shido’s ship. The ship rocked, rumbled, and Goro stumbled. “What the _hell_ is he doing up there!?” Goro huffed, digging his clawed gauntlet into the shutter and leaving gashes on the surface. The ship lurched as the Palace destruction started and Goro pitched forward onto his knees. “For fuck’s _sake_! This whole place is gonna come down around our ears!” As if yelling was going to help- they had no idea he was down there. Realization settled, frozen like the room around him, deep in Akira’s stomach. 

The boiler room exploded when the ship sank. 

_Goro was alone down there_. 

_He left Goro to die alone in a fucking boiler room._

He could see something in Goro’s hand. Small and round, and made of yarn. Akira could only stand there and stare as Goro’s head shot up and saw the water flooding the ship as it sank. “ _Perfect_ ,” Goro growled. He turned his head to look at the shutter, where beyond they were running for their lives to get off the ship. He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the water gushed into the scene and the whole room shifted. The ship was going down into the water. Goro slipped, like he was going to fall, and Akira’s heart jumped up into his throat. “ _The Goho-M!_ Goro, please!” 

Goro fell into the water with a yelp. 

“ _GORO!_ ” Akira slammed his hand on the glass and half the mirror shattered, splintering across the remaining pane. The view of the mirror turned black and for one, frightening moment Akira thought he’d lost him all over again. But slowly, like a developing photo, another place came into view on the other side of that mirror. He couldn’t see much surrounding the subject, but he definitely knew that mop of brown hair. Akira almost sagged against the broken and breaking glass, and his forehead fell forward to tap against the glass. 

Goro was strapped to a chair, like he once was a few months ago in the police station. He was slumped forward, his white button-up shirt torn a little, and his hair dangling from his head as it hung limply facing the ground. Akira watched his frame carefully, and it seemed as though he _was_ breathing. 

Akechi Goro was _alive_. 

Akira knocked his knuckles against the glass, expecting the limp form in the chair not to hear him. True to his expectations, Goro didn’t move. But the shadows around him did. 

“ **Well, isn’t that cute..?** ” A cold chill settles in his veins more shocking than the freezing cold around him. “ **All bundled up in that blanket. You know- that blanket wasn’t free.** ” Joker stepped around from behind Goro, and Akira saw red. 

“What have you done to him?” “ **Me? I haven’t done anything. I’m not here for him. I’m here for _you_. If anything, I’m _protecting him_ , so you’re welcome.**” Joker huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, his leatherbound arms stretching the fabric of his jacket in doing so. “Where is he? Where are _you_?” Joker frowns at the questions, “ **You see _me_ and you still wonder where you are? And to think he considers you to be intelligent.**” 

“This isn’t the Metaverse. It can’t be. This is just some horrible nightmare that keeps fucking haunting me. This isn’t real.”Akira grit his teeth behind his lips as he lies between them. It stings like the ice forming on the glass and on the walls, threatening him to drop his blanket again. “ **The Metaverse is a place of cognition. Perhaps you’re here because you want to be. Is there another Palace you wish haunted your dreams…?** ” 

A… Palace… 

“He doesn’t have a Palace. Persona users can’t have Palaces.” 

“ **Is that so? You know what I hear when you say that? Excuses. Isn’t this what you want most in the entire world?** ” Joker sneered a smiled Akira doesn’t even think he can _make_ with his face, all jagged and wrong. “ **You leave him to die, and yet you love him _so dearly_.**” He gets closer to the glass, tapping it with his fingers, “ **How _selfish_ can you be? You leave him there to get shot and just turn away without another word because a _talking cat_ asked you?**” 

“I… made him a promise. I couldn’t defeat Shido if we stayed down there… And his signal was gone. I thought… _we_ thought..” Akira tucks himself further into the blanket. Somehow, the vanilla and rich scent makes itself stronger. What _is_ that? “ **Don’t lie to the both of us. You thought he was already dead, and there was nothing you could do, and you wouldn’t even allow yourself time to _mourn_ him. Everyone else got their few days to recuperate after their situations. Where was _your_ mourning period? You never even took one.**” “I couldn’t! I had to make sure we were ready!” Akira sounded like he was convincing himself more than he was convincing Joker… who honestly _was_ a part of himself, so what was he really doing here? Defending himself _in front of himself_. “ **Do you miss him? Do you love him? How hard do you grieve for him? How many tears have you let yourself shed and wish you could remember the exact sound of his voice? You want answers? They’re all here! But you have to keep coming back.** ” 

“You son of a bitch,” Akira growled, “Don’t you _dare_ tell me I haven’t missed him hard enough! You’re a _part_ of me! You know how much I’ve missed him, and how much I love him. Don’t _put this on me_!” 

“ **Do you even know what I am?** ” “You’re me!” “ **Not here. Here, I’m your _guilt_.**” Joker pointed behind him at Goro, still motionless in his chair, “ **For failing _him_. For letting him _drown._** ” 

Akira woke up with such a jolt he didn’t feel the smooth pads of paws on his cheek. A scream rips from his throat unbidden as consciousness came back to him and he launched himself forward at such speed that he all but catapulted Morgana off of his face. He looked down at his own hands, fists clenching warm and fluffy purple fabric. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He wouldn’t stop trembling. Cold seeped into his bones as the reality of what just happened to him came into focus. 

Akira couldn’t stop the tears even if he tried. They slid silently down his cheeks one at a time, and then en masse. Morgana yells at him at first, first in anger, then concern, but Akira didn’t hear him. His brain added the circumstances and evidence with frightening speed. The house constantly playing _memories_. Memories of Goro’s life. Things that happened to him, things people _said_ to him. They’re all there in that house. Haunting him. Haunting _them_ , now. 

He had failed Goro. Spectacularly so. He had failed the only one he had ever loved. 

Akira doesn’t ask why he still has the blanket. It makes sense, in some morbid way. Further proof that it’s a Palace. Akira could always bring back support items from the Metaverse when he was a Phantom Thief. It’s not as warm to the touch in reality, not able to protect him from the chill settling into his bones from the inside, but still warm enough to protect him from any outside chill. He bundled his hand in the fabric and brought it to his face. 

It smelled like Goro.


	3. The Man That Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... I'm alive! I promise I'm alive! A LOT has happened to me, just as I'm sure a lot's happened to many, many others. The world is a scary place right now, and I hope my little fic is helping those that need it. 
> 
> This chapter was... an experience to write. It's emotionally heavy, so I'd suggest sitting down with it and keeping in mind this chapter is hefty on the feels. Writing it was a long, emotionally draining process. But I'm happy with the result! So I'm sharing it with you guys. 
> 
> Letters is still on to be updated- I haven't given up on it! I've just had a lot going down with my job, then the pandemic, and a whole slew of other personal issues. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter! We've almost reached the midpoint, and I'm starting to sprinkle in hints~! I wonder who's gonna catch it first! 
> 
> Enjoy~!

Chapter Three: The Man That Was

Morgana had woken Akira in time for dinner, as promised, but Akira didn’t eat. He just didn’t have the appetite, and he declined Morgana’s insistence every time. The cat’s ears fell back flat against his head, and his tail swished with displeasure. “Come on, Akira, you can’t skip a meal. It’s not healthy!” “I really don’t feel like it,” Akira said, typing a long text message. “I had a bad dream.” “Yeah, I saw. You nearly threw me across the room.” “.... Sorry.” Morgana jumped back up onto the bed and sat down on Akira’s chest. Akira has long since become used to Morgana’s weight on him, and he simply frowned as the cat used a tiny, white paw to push Akira’s phone down, summarily deleting his message. He looked up at Morgana’s concerned face with impassive eyes, “What?” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

It was a heavy question. If he did tell Morgana, what would happen? Would the cat be understanding? Would he accept the explanation of a new Palace in the formerly destroyed remnants of Mementos that belonged to a dead man? Was it any of Morgana’s business? 

All things considered, it was. Morgana was his friend, and he just wanted to help. As their resident authority on Mementos, Morgana might actually _be_ able to help. All he had to do was tell him.

“I’m fine,” Akira has never been one to share his feelings. Not to Morgana, not to Sojiro. Not to Goro, even though he came very close to doing so with him. 

Not to anyone. 

He could tell Morgana doesn’t believe him, but Akira decided that was fine. Morgana had never believed him when he said he’s okay. He knew better- knew that whatever excuse that came out of his mouth, however convincing, was a lie. After some well-meaning bullying from Morgana, Akira did manage to eat a little bit. Though, ‘a little bit’ could be defined specifically as half of a takeaway okonomiyaki pancake. It was better than nothing though, and Morgana seemed satisfied that at least _some_ kind of nutrition was in Akira’s system. By that time it was so late there was little more to do than sleep, but Akira couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep again. Not for lack of trying, of course, but no matter what he did sleep just wouldn’t come to him. 

Part of him wonders if it was because of the Palace. Maybe he can only visit it once a night? But why can’t he have a dreamless sleep…? A sleep devoid of the Palace, or at least a happy dream. On second thought, that was probably more associated with his feelings, and his current level of stress. 

There were many hours left in the night. 

So many in fact, it was long enough for Akira to think of his regrets, and all the little things he would have done differently if he could go back in time. 

Which was even more of an insult because he was _offered_ that choice. Yaldabaoth offered to make things the way they once were. He was given what no other human could ever possibly have: a reset button, and he simply didn’t press it. At the time he was pissed, and rightfully so, and half of that answer was fired back purely out of spite. But in reality, Akira knew why he refused the offer, and it had nothing to do with pissing off Yaldabaoth. 

It’s somewhere along the tenuous border between Fuck This O’Clock and The Red-Eye Espresso Hour, Akira thinks that Goro is the reason why he didn’t accept the offer. Goro showed him a side of himself Akira didn’t think he had. A side that was genuine, and a side that unanimously decided between every other part of him that he would rather live with the truth, no matter how difficult it was, than remain complacent with a lie. Even if Goro was right in front of him, and they had the option, Akira likes to think the both of them could be strong enough together to make that decision. 

Because all the powers that be know that, individually, Goro and Akira couldn’t possibly be strong enough to resist an offer like that. It’s too tempting. The choice between living happily with one another for the rest of their days, even if it wasn’t real. A wish curled on a monkey’s paw. No. They grew beyond limiting themselves to settling for things. They gave up having someone else decide their futures for them. If they were to make a choice like that, they would make it together, thinking about the world and what’s at stake. 

The needs of the many.

It felt like a century before blue dawn creeped through the window. In that time, Akira had cleaned his room again and sent half a dozen needlessly long text messages. At one point, he wondered exactly how one could pace enough to put a rut into their floor… and proceeded to attempt it. Morgana slept like a rock through the whole thing, curled on his bed and entirely unaware that Akira had been so restless. It wasn’t for lack of trying- he did make a valiant effort to go to sleep many times, but it just never happened. 

They had an early start to the train station, and that was only _partially_ influenced by Akira’s inability to sleep. He packed a bag while he paced, including the figure for Futaba. The train ride to Yongen takes two and a half hours, and if Akira got there early enough, the trains wouldn’t be so crowded. Akira ate a little bit for breakfast- just enough to put something in his system. He knew _exactly_ what he wanted to eat when he got there. 

The first train into the city wasn’t entirely packed with people, but it was crowded. Akira stood to make room for those who needed to sit and he held onto a rail so the gentle rocking of the car didn’t bowl him over into others. He’d never really heard of that happening before, but it’s not _impossible_. The train car rocks steadily on the track as it carries its commuters into the city. It almost lulls Akira to sleep, with how tumultuous his sleep schedule has been for these last few days. In the past, he’d seen others fall asleep on the train standing up, and vaguely he wondered if it would be a difficult feat to accomplish. Perhaps if he just… closed his eyes for a minute? 

“Hello? Are you listening!?” 

Akira blinked, and he looked down at the much shorter Futaba. A quick glance around the room told him that he had _just_ walked into Leblanc, but he doesn’t remember the train ride, or even walking to the cafe. Had he walked in his sleep the entire way? “Sorry,” Akira mumbled, “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

Sojiro eyed him from the counter and somehow, Akira felt apprehensive. Sojiro looked at him like he _understood_. He didn’t know what was worse- that Sojiro understood and was willing to talk with him about it, or if Sojiro didn’t understand but was willing to push it under the rug like he had so many other things in the past. 

Futaba, unaware of Sojiro’s expression, simply frowned and grabbed him by the wrist. “You _do_ look low on energy. Sojiro! He needs _curry_!” She dragged Akira over to the counter and Sojiro is already scooping out some curry with a ladle over a bed of rice. “Alright, Futaba, don’t crowd him when he just got here,” He sounded so fond, like a father, and it hits Akira that he’s in the one space he felt like he needed right now. 

The scent of curry and coffee mingling thickly in the air settles back into his clothes and hair with practiced ease. He’ll smell like it for days, even if he showers. The wistful yearning that churned at his stomach and made him want to sprint the distance between his tiny country town and this tiny city cafe finally felt settled in the presence of the warm light filtering in to nurture the plants Akira didn’t think he’d ever seen Sojiro water, and shine on Sayuri’s motherly face. 

He was _home_.

Remembering the entire purpose behind his visit, Akira lets Morgana out onto a chair at the bar and rifled through his bag. He pulled out the golden Red Hawk figure and Futaba’s eyes lit up like a magpie. “OOH! Gimme!” Overjoyed, she grabbed the offered box and carefully examined it, before beaming brightly at him. “Key item _get_! Thank you, Akira! You’re the greatest! I’m going to go pose him with the others- don’t eat all the curry without me!” Futaba was practically vibrating by this point as she slid off the barstool and skipped out the door. Sojiro sighs at his daughter’s antics, and slides a plate with a spoon and a healthy helping of curry across the counter towards Akira. 

“Having trouble sleeping?” Akira nodded in reply and looked up when a fresh cup of coffee joined the plate of curry. “Thanks.” Sojiro shrugged, “It’s the least I can do. You only just went home a few days ago- we thought we wouldn’t see you for a while yet.” The older man leaned back a little, looking over Akira’s face like he was searching for something. Eventually, he sighs again, only this time it’s heavy. It’s an old, knowing, weighted thing.

“You know, I had a look on my face like that once.” Sojiro started as he bussed down the bar for what had to have been the fifth time that morning, “It felt like the world was ending, and I couldn’t cope with it. It’s the face you get when you reach the day you swore you’d never see. When the world somehow seems more lonely than it was that last night, and when you can’t sleep cause every time you close your eyes you see their face.” If Futaba were here, Akira thought he would never be hearing this from Sojiro. It’s too vulnerable- too damning. Sojiro only got like this when he and Akira were alone. Maybe he felt Akira was old enough or man enough to hear it. Maybe he just wanted the ear. 

Akira was famous for that.

The indirect admission put to rest a suspicion Akira and Futaba have both had, though out of respect for Sojiro he’d never repeat this for the hacker to hear. Akira put down his spoon and reached for his coffee, ignoring the stare Morgana was giving him from the stool next to his own. The hard stare of concern. The _knowing_ stare. “I’ve tried sleeping pills and melatonin gummies, but I don’t think I should anymore. They aren’t really working anyway, and I don’t want to keep taking more of them. But…”

“It’s better than no sleep?” “.... Yeah.” A somber feeling settled into the silence stretching between them. Morgana wisely chose not to interject and letting them have their moment only made it worse, as Sojiro was always quick to mention the talkative not-cat and change the mood. Akira appreciated it and wished Morgana would not extend that courtesy, all in the same breath. 

“Does it ever get better?” Said the boy who missed a detective that probably didn’t want it.

“Only in your dreams,” Replied the man who missed a scientist that never got the chance to hear it.

Futaba came bouncing back into the cafe not a few moments of tense silence later, Akira staring into the half-eaten curry he wasn’t sure he could stomach anymore, and Sojiro staring off into the distance still wiping down the same part of the bar. 

“Whoaaa, what happened here!?” Many people discredit Futaba’s ability to communicate with others since she locked herself away in her room for so long. The truth was that Futaba was actually incredibly receptive to those she cares about, and as the cafe door swung closed with all the finality of the jingled shopkeeper’s bell she could sense the tension and somber atmosphere in the room surrounding the two people she cared about most. 

“Nothing,” Sojiro was jostled quickly out of his reveries by Futaba and pinches the bridge of his nose- something he only does when he’s trying not to cry. “I’m gonna go out and get cigarettes. Since you’re here, Akira, watch the bar.” Akira nods as Sojiro makes his way around the counter and out the door and Futaba slumps down into the stool on the other side of Akira. _The_ stool. _Goro’s stool_. 

“Hey… what’s up?” Futaba looked concerned, a tiny pout crossing her lips as she tried to figure out what had happened while she was gone. “And don’t say it’s nothing! I won’t believe you.” Her cheeks puff with her indignation and her determination, which was sweet. It warmed Akira’s heart, but also made him feel bad for causing her distress. Futaba was like a little sister to him after all, and hurting her feelings wasn’t something he ever intended to do by his words or actions… or lack thereof.

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind,” Akira replied quietly, as if he’s ever raised his voice outside of his dreams. Futaba hummed and tilted her head a little at him and she kicked her legs against the stool. She narrowed her eyes as she studied his features, and Akira felt the intense urge to look away from her, focusing back on his half-eaten plate. 

“Listen.” 

That singular word carried so much weight it actually drew Akira’s eyes back up to hers. She took a deep, full breath and exhaled as if gathering herself before she continued, “When I lost my mom, it hurt. Okay? No one ever actually _tells_ you what it’s like to lose a parent, and unless you do lose one, you’ll never know what it feels like. You know how crappy I feel, that the last time I spoke to her before the day she died I was _complaining_? But then… I feel like if I’d complained at all, ever, I’d feel just as bad. If it wasn’t that time, it’d be the time before it. No one _tells you_ when you’re going to lose your mom. You just _do_. Then every little thing you’ve ever felt crappy for doing suddenly seems like a felony.” Futaba swung back and forth in her chair, gathering her thoughts. Morgana hopped up onto her lap to give her something else to focus on and slowly she stopped, petting Morgana instead of swinging the stool around as she grew more and more restless. 

Akira could count on one hand the amount of times Futaba has talked with him in the past about her mother. However, none of those occasions were ever a discussion at length. It had always been little details and tiny bits of how it made her feel, not… a speech. So Akira was silent as he listened, letting Futaba have all the time she needed. 

“But… and I’ve been thinking about this lately. At least I was old enough to remember my mom. Some people don’t get that lucky. I knew she loved me, even when I complained about not being able to see her. She fought her damndest for us, and we were _lucky_. It’s _hard_ for a single mother to keep a job in Japan. If not for Sojiro…” 

Akira could hear what she was saying as plain as day. He wondered vaguely how often Futaba had listened in on his and Goro’s conversations over the last year. The times Goro had mentioned his own mother, that he’d also lost and lost _young_ , and how he was passed from family to foster home until he ran into Shido. Futaba herself had walked a very thin line between being adopted by Sojiro, and ending up in foster care. Ending up like Goro.

“At first, I was mad, you know? And I recognize that I have the right to be. The bottom line is that my mother is dead, and Akechi killed her. I’m not mad anymore, but… I don’t forgive him. And that’s fine. I don’t _have to_ forgive him. But… Akira, that’s _my_ beef with _him_. I know you miss him. He was something special to you. We could all tell. Well… _most of us_.” Akira looked away, not wanting to face Futaba’s expression as she called him out so effortlessly. “We’re all different things to different people. I get that, and… I don’t resent you for caring about him. In the end, he did pull through for us, and it’s not like I _wanted_ him to die.” Morgana looked up at her as the events of the last few days suddenly began to make sense to him, and he turned his fluffy head to stare at Akira. 

“If I could snap my fingers and rez him for you, I would, but… I can’t. So… I guess all I can offer is an ear. Or a shoulder, though you’d have to lean way far down to do that...” 

Akira wanted to tell her. The words sizzled there on the tip of his tongue threatening to pour out in a deluge of “He’s not dead!” 

But what proof did he have? 

His dreams? How stable was that? To say that he knew Goro was alive because in his dreams he slips off to the Metaverse? How would that make sense…? Akira realized that his silence stretched on into minutes, and Futaba was waiting for some kind of reply. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Akira started to unzip the luggage weighing down his heart. It’s the least he could do for now, to ease the concerns of both Futaba and Morgana, and maybe… give himself some peace.

“I want to be mad at him, sometimes.” It came out quiet, and it came out tense. Futaba simply nodded at him, and Morgana moved into his lap instead of staying with Futaba. “I want to be _livid_. Where does he get off, trying to kill me twice, then turning around to sacrifice himself? Did our meetings, our _friendship_ , mean _nothing_ to him? I understand what he was trying to do and I get he had his own motives, but that _hurt_. I’d made it my business to save everyone, and the only one I couldn’t save was the one who needed it the most.” Futaba listened, thankfully without interrupting him. Akira was a man of very few words. Speaking more than a single sentence at a time like this was rare for him, and his words carry weight. “But I just _can’t_. I’ll be angry with him for thirty seconds, and then it’ll be gone. I keep thinking of what would have happened if I’d pulled him across the barrier line, or if I’d talked with him more seriously sooner, but… that never happened.”

Silence rang in the room, Morgana and Futaba taking in all that Akira had said. Somewhere deep in Akira’s consciousness, he swore he could hear a deep inhale and a soft, so soft, “ _That’s fair._ ” But before he could have a chance to react, a little voice spoke up from his lap.

“You can’t blame yourself for that.” 

Morgana had finally decided to interject, and it was a quiet little meow. “Akira, that isn’t healthy. You didn’t know he was going to die, you didn’t know he was going to betray us. You tried your best to help him, but… it just didn’t work out. At first we thought he was just gonna bust us. Until the pancake thing… and we didn’t remember that until _way later_! You can’t put that on yourself.” 

Those were just excuses. They really were. Akira shook his head, “I knew. I remembered. I knew he had access to the Metaverse, and I tried. I really tried. But I failed him.” 

“Did you, though?” Futaba spoke up again, fidgeting with the ends of her long hair, “If you failed him, you would have died twice over. I’ve been thinking about our plan, too. Back in November? It was… far from perfect. Yeah, it worked, but…” 

It really shouldn’t have. 

“Look… All we’re saying is that you did the best you could. You can’t change what happened. All you can do is grieve, and pull the pieces together.” Morgana butted his little head up against Akira’s hand where he was absently petting, “We’ll be here for you. Whatever you need.” It’s sweet, even if it doesn’t feel like it’s really going to help him much at the moment. It’s… welcome. 

“Thanks.” 

The mood improved when Sojiro came back, smelling of fresh cigarettes, and brandished a bag of candy and sparklers. In Akira’s time here, and all the times Sojiro has closed down the store _and_ bought food for them, nevermind Futaba’s expensive computer setup… he never understood where all the money comes from to fund it. Perhaps it’s his pension from retiring from government work. Or part of what the government gives him for taking in Futaba. But something told Akira that Sojiro has all that stashed away for her in a tidy savings account. Maybe broken into once or twice, but all for her wellbeing. Sojiro was just _like that_. 

“You’re going to stay the night, at least,” Sojiro said as he places the bag in front of Akira. His words left for no room for argument. “No friends yet, just… the three- err… Four of us. I forgot the cat.” Akira looked up at Sojiro, and for the first time in months, Akira actually cracked a smile. 

This was exactly what he needed. 

It didn’t slip his notice, as he threw an apron on and slid behind the counter of the cafe, that his parents never texted or called to ask him where he was, or what he was doing. They never texted him for the year he was gone, why should they now? But even as he was thinking that, Sojiro gave him a sour look, palmed Akira’s phone off the table, and slid it into the little, narrow cubby under the cash register, where it usually went when he was working a shift at the cafe. There’s an outlet under there, and the phone charger Futaba brought in for Sojiro’s own phone was still there, as Sojiro also plugged in his phone for him. 

Akira understood what Sojiro was trying to do, and it was _working_. What Akira needed was to be surrounded by _family_. So they ran the cafe until the sun went down and Sojiro closed the store early. They ate dinner of curry and fatty tuna for Morgana together in a worn booth and laughed as Futaba went into a dramatic recreation of the latest Featherman spinoff episode. They ate candy and lit sparklers and Morgana _still_ choked on the smoke. 

For a while, just a handful of hours, Akira forgot about his worries. He was distracted from the sadness and the ever encroaching depression, and his soul received a well-needed reprieve from the chaos that’s unfolding in his dreams. 

For such a short time, Akira remembered that he _does_ have a family- a family that he had chosen, hand selected. A family that loves him, and has unconditionally supported him even when he didn’t support himself. He has a place to call home, even if it’s a dusty little cafe tucked within a small alley. Though, if Akira were honest with himself, he’d have it no other way. 

As the sun set and they started to wrap up when the sparklers ran out, Akira made his way back inside the cafe to collect his phone. A few texts from Ryuji and Ann, a photo from Yusuke of a recent work in progress that he couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, and dead air from everyone else. Including his parents. Sojiro came back into the cafe with a giggling Futaba and a hacking Morgana only to frown at the boy behind the counter. 

“Look, Akira,” Sojiro begins, leaning over the counter, just next to the small shelf of books. Next to Goro’s stool. “I don’t want to tell you what to do with your own phone, but… it doesn’t seem to be doing you any favors tonight. You packed an overnight bag, your room is how you left it. We agreed you’d stay tonight anyway. While you’re up there… maybe think about stayin’ a little longer. It hasn’t been long since you went home, but it would certainly make me feel better to have you here at least a couple more days.” It was Sojiro’s way of telling Akira that he’s worried without actually saying the words, and it pulls something deep in Akira’s heart. Especially after tonight, Akira doesn’t want to miss any more of his home more than he already has. Maybe it was just the mood from the food, the smell of coffee, and the actual fun he’s had today that affirms his opinion of the idea, but now that he’s home again, he’s so reluctant to leave.

“Yeah. I’ll think about it.” 

Akira ascended the stairs with Morgana trotting along behind him. “Do you think you’ll have nightmares tonight?” Morgana asked as Akira unpacked, curled in a loaf on the familiar bed. The room was precisely how Akira had left it, bare but familiar, and with decidedly more dust. He could already hear it now- a scoff that’s slightly disappointed, “ _Don’t you ever dust?_ ” “Oi.” “ _Are those… crates?_ ” 

“Akira.” 

“ _Please invest in a proper frame? That isn’t healthy._ ” “HEY!” 

Akira jolted as Morgana spat at him with a soft paw. Morgana glared at him and returned his paw to the tuck under his chest. He sighed heavily, his little frame moving from the action. “You back with me?” “... Sorry.” 

Morgana levels him with a stare, then lays his head on the clean sheets Sojiro gave them folded by the corner of the bed. “I know.” 

Akira spent the remainder of the night giving his room a good clean and finding a place to put the small amount of stuff he brought with him. Clothes folded on a shelf by the bed, bathroom supplies in a freezer bag next to it. He tucked the bag under the bed, just in front of the crates, and if that bag still had a striped tie in it, Akira would never admit to its existence. Work done, and finally ready for bed, Akira flopped down onto the changed sheets with his phone and pulled that purple blanket over his legs. He answered some texts, sent one off to Goro’s phone as had become a habit, and scrolled on social media. Morgana had curled up against Akira’s side and fallen asleep within the first ten minutes, and Akira appreciated that the not-cat had curled up so close. It was calming for him to pet his fingers through the fur, and for all that Morgana was quick to correct people about not actually being a cat, he would purr all the same. 

Somewhere around 11:30, when it’s late, but comparatively a decent hour for him, Akira adjusts the glasses on his nose and finally puts his phone down on his chest. He was tired, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready to sleep. Ready to rest, maybe, and to him these were two different things. If he just closed his eyes, perhaps, for a few moments. He did still have his glasses on… he should remember to take those off before he sleeps for real. But just… a few moments...

But when Akira opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at the spackled ceiling of Goro’s Palace instead of the wood of Leblanc’s rafters. Somehow knowing that this was a Palace, and not a nightmare made being in this place equally worse and better at the same time. A Palace wasn’t a recurring nightmare- now Akira could look at the events in this place more logically. However, it was Goro’s _Palace_. Persona users aren’t supposed to have Palaces. Those are things they can’t have, because their distorted desires became their Persona, instead. But then… Morgana has been wrong before, regarding things that happen in the Metaverse. No one’s understanding of this other world was complete except maybe Igor’s, and the quirky master of the Velvet Room was nowhere to be seen. Not that Akira would ever expect to get anything other than a cryptic answer out of the old man for the asking anyway. 

Akira sat up on the couch and took a look around the living room. Nothing seemed to have changed since he was last here, but then he hadn’t received any kind of gift either. Absently as he swung his legs over the couch and put on the house slippers helpfully placed within reach, Akira wondered what went into the gift giving process here. In none of the other Palaces had the Palace rulers ever given them gifts that protected them. Ostensibly he could assume the gift was from Goro- it was warm and soft, a comfort item, and it smelled like him. But why? Maybe Akira wasn’t the only one who felt guilty..?

Akira wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

It had almost become routine, checking all the doors to see which he can open and which remain locked. More cleaning supplies have been taken from the storage under the stairs. The back door was no longer boarded up and the door looked new, but when Akira went to turn the knob, it didn’t budge. He moved through the living room into the foyer, and then into the hall. Curious feet moved upstairs, and tried every door- even the pull down to the attic. However, in whichever way strangeness could be measured in a place like this one, all of the doors were locked except those he’d already visited. Furthermore, there wasn’t a single sighting of that large, silver-framed mirror. 

For once, the weather outside matched the weather seen from inside, and it was actually cheery and bright once Akira stepped out onto the finished porch. The house was still a mess, but it definitely looked better. The boards and nails had been taken off the windows and doors from the outside, the hedges trimmed, and it looked like someone had finally broken out a power washer to work off the rest of the grime on the house, but it hadn’t been used yet. The playground in the backyard looked recently played around in, which was strange, because Akira has yet to see a soul inside that house of age and size to make the tiny footprints in the sandbox or own the new toys strewn all over the yard. 

Akira thought it was strange, how the house seemed to look better and better with each passing visit. The house seemed to be cleaning itself, and with Akira’s previous experiences with Palaces he knew it meant something, but he hadn’t yet seen the like of it. Maybe if he could find Goro in all of this mess… maybe he could get some answers from the source. Provided this wasn’t some horrific nightmare and Goro still ended up being dead after this is over, that is. 

Returning to the house, Akira wondered what he’s to do in this Palace that would actually make progress tonight. He moved back into the living room and adjusted the frames on his face. Maybe he could try the doors one more time. He had to be here for a reason tonight. These things don’t just happen out of the blue… right? 

Akira went around the house again, trying doorknobs both ways and leaving open doors that he could enter. By the time Akira started going upstairs, he’d become a little agitated, and very near giving up on helping Goro at all tonight. How can he help a man who didn’t want to be helped? He reached the top of the stairs and looked around, sighing as he saw the hall exactly as he left it. Starting from the left side, he tried the door first on the left, then the right with no success. Then he turned around, and came face to face with his own reflection. A knee-jerk reaction of surprise made him jump before the rest of his vision registered that he was staring at his reflection in the silver-edged mirror. 

Perhaps it’s a reflection of his experiences here, or maybe it’s plain fucked up, but Akira was actually _relieved_ to see the mirror. It meant something was happening, and maybe he can help some of Goro’s distortion. Though… distortions tend get worse when agitated, not better, so he knew he was likely in for a ride tonight. He wondered if all of these rooms were… memories. Of horrible events he’d have to endure in order to rescue Goro from this Palace, and from himself. All the little things that this Palace has done so far to try to rob him of sleep and traumatize him, and the events that were yet to come. Would it all be worth it, in the end? To save the one man that he thought deserved it the most? 

Yes. Akira thought so. 

Akira looked down from the window when he saw a light come from towards the floor. The door on the left was cracked open, just a bit. Akira listened carefully, and beyond the door he could hear the sound of running water. He almost wished he had a weapon for this, because he wasn’t sure what he was going to find once he opened the door. Keeping his shoulder to the wall, Akira pushed on the door until it creaked open on its hinges. Peering around the corner, Akira was rendered extremely perplexed. 

It was an apartment. 

A small city apartment, inside the house. Akira sighed heavily and stepped into the space, and as he took that single step into the apartment, something hard crunched under his slipper. Stepping back, Akira looked down and there, on the floor, was a ring of keys. Akira bent down to pick them up, and found that the crunching sound came from a Red Hawk acrylic Featherman keychain, on which all the keys were held. He had broken it in half with his foot. 

Akira placed the keys in his pocket and moved into the apartment. It was a small city apartment- mostly all in one room. Once inside the door, there was a little kitchenette, and the first thing Akira noticed was that the faucet was on and the sink had overflowed. The sink basin was narrow but deep, with some dishes set to dry next to it. Water gushed over the side and fell in rivers over the cabinets below, but disappearing into nothing before the water could pool on the floor. Little poms of marigold blossoms and tiny, thin, white slips dance in the water before also falling off the side with the current. A bright yellow marigold circles just under the faucet, trapped in the vortex from the water pouring down into the full basin. Akira approached the sink and fished out a white petal. Upon careful inspection, and upon finding one that still had its center, Akira could verify that these were rainflower petals. 

An… odd combination, to say the least. 

Reaching over the sink, Akira turned off the water. He watched as that last, large marigold slipped over the edge into oblivion. None of the petals even littered the floor. Perhaps foolishly, Akira dipped his hand in to unclog the sink, and he felt a snag on his finger towards the drain. “Ow,” Pulling his hand out of the drain to inspect his finger, Akira found that he had in fact cut himself on a thorn. Great stems were jammed into the drain- there was no unclogging the sink. Akira abandoned the task and started taking in his surroundings a little better. 

There wasn’t much color in the room. It was almost like an oversaturated photograph, or perhaps one of those trendy filters Ann used on all of her social media posts. Everything seemed… Too bright. Too light. Overexposed film in a darkroom. It was off-putting and, honestly, frightening. Like much of how this Palace was turning out to be, each cautious step forward was filled with apprehension and not insignificant anxiety. There was a door off to the right, and Akira correctly assumed it was the bathroom. When he pushed the door open, however, he noticed a couple things immediately upon turning on the light. The bathroom mirror was broken, and the toilet was absolutely overflowing. But not with water- with _flowers_. 

Bluebells, carnations that couldn’t decide if they were to be red or yellow, yellow roses, primrose. Plumes of purple hyacinth and sprigs upon sprigs of rue stuffed in the cracks with crushed yellow flowers from the pressure of everything crammed around it. Akira had never seen anything like it before- he’d never heard of anyone trying to flush down the toilet whole _bouquets_. The more of this Akira saw, the less he liked it. What did these flowers mean to Goro? Did he even _know_ the meanings? It wouldn’t surprise Akira if he had, but still. Goro kept a lot of secrets, even from him. _Especially_ from him. What Akira wouldn’t give to have the other man just open up to him, even a little? Maybe that would explain half of the things he had seen here. 

Akira abandoned this room too, moving towards the only other room in the apartment. Akira again assumed it was a bedroom, and when he opened the door, he was right. There was no color in this room. None whatsoever. The floor was white, the bed was white. The small bookcase, desk, laptop, the _Featherman figures_ were white. It was almost like there was white paint over the photo frames and that silver mirror was back again covered in swathes of dried and crackling white over the surface. If Akira didn’t know better, it felt like the mirror itself was screaming. The only source of color in the room was in the center, and it drew Akira’s eye to it almost instantly. It gripped him, and it didn’t let go. Red rose petals had fallen like droplets of blood towards this massive pile of them in the center. Wet blooms and blood-coated thorns piled one on the other, dripping onto the pristine, white carpet. They fell towards the wall like a great, wet avalanche, and Akira felt his heart rate pick up in his chest. A horrific, slimey squelching noise followed the slip and slide of petals into the carpet in one slow gush forward, red blood seeping between the stark white fibers. As if gravity in the room inverted with a swoop low in Akira’s belly, blood trickled up the wall to decorate the empty space between the desk and the bed with four words in bold, fingerpainted characters: “It was too real.”

Akira’s focus was entirely taken by the words that at first… he didn’t hear it. Something caught on his ears like an afterthought. A voice, and one he could pick out in a crowd. 

“Goro..?” 

It was Goro’s voice, echoing as if in the distance and getting louder by the second. Laughter that sounded a little crazed, agonized screams on hoarse vocal cords. Heavy coughs and dry heaves. Damning words. 

“ _What even was that..?_ ” 

“ _Are you serious!? All that work we went through, wasted!_ ” 

“ _Did I just fucking…_ ” 

“ _Stupid! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!_ ” 

_“Shadow’s don’t bleed… They don’t.”_

Panic seemed to rise in the room and in Akira’s chest- a cold fist that mercilessly clenched down on his heart. He had a _very_ bad feeling he knew exactly what this was about, and guilt settled in Akira’s stomach. 

“ _Reckless! I thought you HEARD me! I thought you UNDERSTOOD ME! I thought you knew…_ ” 

“ _I think I’m gonna be sick… I can’t have actually… Done that._ ” 

“ _Akira…_ ” 

Slowly, as if to drive himself away from the noise, Akira backed up and out of the room, one shaking step at a time. Had he caused this? Had their plan to escape the plot against Akira caused Goro so much grief? During those early months, it wasn’t hard to miss Goro’s little signs. Breadcrumbs left for Akira to decipher. Hidden cries for help. Akira could count on both hands how many he’d heard, and there were likely more too obscure for Akira to pick up offhand. Goro tried to reach out to Akira, and Akira really… didn’t help as well as he could have. 

He didn’t think Goro would _actually_ shoot him. But he must have… if Goro was affected like this. He must have shot the shadow. Which begs the question on Akira’s mind: Why? 

If Akira were _really_ in that chair, instead of the shadow… would Goro have killed him? 

It seems there were fundamental pieces of their game that Akira missed, some sign that Goro gave him that Akira didn’t understand. If only he had the opportunity to ask the man himself… 

Perhaps, when this is over, he will get that opportunity. 

Akira’s foot crunched on something that sounded like grass. The soft shifting of green life giving way to the tread of his house slipper. The sound drew his eyes down to the floor, and Akira found that he hadn’t stepped on grass, but on a flower. The whole floor was carpeted in _flowers_. The same, white flower, to be precise. White roses bloom up from between the cracks in the floorboards, and Akira follows their path to his left as the floor stretches on and on in a field of growing roses. The apartment that was has turned into a long hallway, with doors lining one side. Dread settles in the pit of Akira’s stomach- he remembered this hallway. It was the hallway leading to the interrogation room where he had been detained, all those months ago. 

Waiting to see if their plan worked. 

Waiting for Goro. 

As soon as Akira was out of the doorway, the door to the bedroom slammed shut right in his face. He flinched away as the dispersed air from the impact brushed his nose and cheek. All was silent. No more voice, no creaking of the apartment settling. Nothing. The silence was so heavy, it felt like a physical weight on Akira’s shoulders. Each step Akira took down this hallway felt like he wasn’t getting any closer to his goal. It was as if he took one step, and the hallway lengthened by that distance. Thorns caught on the legs of his sweatpants, and some lucky one managed to scrape the skin underneath, but Akira kept moving. The hallway was silent, but for the slight crunch of slippers to flower, but even that fell away to the ringing of his ears and the thudding beat of his heart. He walked, and he wasn’t sure how long, or how far he’d walked, until finally… he came to the end. 

Waiting for him at the end of the hall was that silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall facing him, and a table. A table he vividly remembered. Even though he’d been high on drugs pumped through his system by the officers that detained him, even though he’d been out of it. He couldn’t forget the table in the interrogation room, for how often he’d stared at it while explaining his story to Sae for hours. She had always said she was short on time… but they’d spoken for hours. Maybe the higher ups were waiting on Goro that day, too. 

Settles on top of the table was a single white asphodel. Akira picked up the delicate white flower by the harmless stem and examined it. The plume of white petals were soft and silken against his fingers as he pinched a tiny petal between two fingers to feel its texture. Akira looked up at the mirror, and all he could see was his reflection, and the long stretch of hallway behind him. The flower shuddered in his hands and drew Akira’s attention back down to it to find that the petals curled upwards, as if closing into a bulb, and twisted. 

They twisted with a wet, slick sound and peeled apart from one another in thin curls of red. Sticky and leaving behind little red trails between the core and the new fronds, the petals arched outwards and curled in a delicate, steep bend. Long stems curled upwards, concave to the petals, and spun outwards into a light pom of crimson spider lily. Blood dripped from the petals onto Akira’s wrist, then flowed from there down his elbow onto the table. Shocked and disgusted, Akira dropped the flower back onto the surface and backed up, examining his bloody arm as the fluid continued to build up, dripping and pooling at the center of the table. Lights flickered overhead and he swore, somewhere between the strobes, he saw himself. 

Slumped over on the table. Eyes wide, with a gunshot wound to his forehead. The blood from the flower was pooling _around_ his head. When the lights came back on, Akira looked up at the mirror and saw a shadow standing behind him. His heart jumped into his throat and he swung around on his heel and came eye to eye with Joker. 

“ **Are you starting to get it now?** ” 

Akira took deep, shuddering breaths, “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“ **I hope not. You have a lot of work to do here.** ” He snarked, leaning to the side to see the shadow of Akira dead on the table. “ **... Ah.** ” Leaning back up, he met Akira’s eyes. “ **Well?** ” “Yeah. I get it,” Akira replied, determination crossing his face. Tackling this Palace may very well be the thing that could save Goro, and Akira wanted to do it. He felt like he owed it to the both of them, and what they had. What they _could have_ had. “And I don’t give a shit what you say. I’m not going to give up on him. I’m going to keep coming back until I either save him, or he shuts me out. Whichever comes first. I want to work through this with him.” 

“ **... Good.** ” Joker turned on his heel then, and walked down the hall, stopping in front of a random door. “ **You don’t know how this place really works yet. But your determination is charming. You’ve bought some time. Spend it wisely.** ” With a gloved hand, Joker opened the door and disappeared in a familiar puff of purple smoke. A cognition…? Of course. It couldn’t _possibly_ be the real Joker- that was him. It made sense now, how the cognition swore it was him, separated from himself. Then that made that Joker, what…? Goro’s cognition of Akira? Or something else? 

Akira made his way to the specific door and was met with a very familiar set of descending stairs. Akira tilted his head curiously, adjusted his glasses, and stepped down the wooden stairs as he’d done hundreds of times before this one. The moonlit sky filtered in through the windows, and the scent of coffee and curry teased at Akira’s nose. The bar lights were on, and rain pattered down on the windows in a sheet. 

It was calm, it was _home_. 

But Akira didn’t notice that. 

What he noticed was a figure far at the end of the bar, second stool from the door. A tan jacket was draped over the back with a pair of black leather gloves shoved into the pocket. A crossword puzzle book was open, and a familiar mop of brown hair was curled over the bar, pen tapping rhythmic staccato against the page. 

“Goro?” 

Merlot red eyes turn towards Akira, and a small, genuine smirk crosses a face he never thought he’d ever see again. 

“And here I thought you were never going to make it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was... a lot. This bad boy clocked in at sixteen pages. I'm glad you made it to the end of this chapter with me, and there's a lot more still to come! This story is STILL ongoing. Just- as it gets more emotional and heavy, my writing process makes it really emotionally draining to write, but this next chapter is going to be better! 
> 
> It's a reprieve, I promise! He's ACTUALLY GONNA GET SOME SLEEP! I REALLY PROMISE! XD
> 
> If you wanna scream your emotions at me or chat, my Tumblr's always open! 
> 
> Until next time~!
> 
> ~Pastel's Flower Guide~  
> Marigold: Pain, grief, mourning/suffering  
> Rainflower: Returned affections, "I won't forget you"  
> Bluebell: Loyalty, gratitude  
> Red Carnation: Romantic love, passion  
> Yellow Carnation: Rejection, disdain  
> Yellow Rose: Friendship, apology, betrayal, undying love, jealousy  
> Primrose: Eternal love  
> Purple Hyacinth: Sorrow, "Please forgive me"  
> Rue: Regret, sorrow  
> Red Rose: True love  
> White Rose: Wistfulness  
> White Asphodel: "My regrets will follow you to the grave"  
> Red Spider Lily: Final goodbye, funeral flower symbolizing one being led to rebirth


	4. The Price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EHEHEHEHEHEHE
> 
> Well hello and welcome back to this story~ Have I surprised you? I've been working on this chapter off and on for several months, and I hope you all like it! I'm kinda proud of this one!

Akechi Goro did not like to be touched.

It came from a place where fans would crowd around him and reach for his hand to shake or get grabby on his sleeve. He learned to _hate_ being touched. He did not like to be poked, prodded, grabbed, or otherwise manhandled by fans or anyone else without his express permission. Goro initiated all touches himself, and they were almost always handshakes. The supple slide of leather proved to be a soft but effective barrier between his skin and those he touched.

Akira knew this. He knew that Goro didn’t like to be touched. As he approached the figure in the bar stool, who eyed him with a knowing look, Akira wanted to _touch_. He wanted to break that rule, that guideline of space that Akira had previously always respected. Just to know for sure. He wanted to hug, if it was the only grasp of affection he ever gave or received from this man. Just one hug. But Goro did not give out affection easily, and Akira’s fists balled at his sides to stop himself from brashly reaching out to him.

But oh did he want to, even for just one scant minute, hold Goro in his arms. To shove his nose into those lanky brown strands and feel the solid, present weight of his shoulders and arms and torso pressed up against him. He would be fine with it, he told himself, if Goro never held him back, or insisted with that awful sneer down his nose with vitriol in his eyes that he will never allow that contact again. Just once. Just _once_ would be enough- Akira would _make it_ be enough to sustain his yearning heart.

“Is this real?” It’s a valid question, all things concerned. Goro turned in his chair and Akira’s gaze rove over him. No sign of gunshot wounds, no bruises, no injuries… Nothing. He’s perfectly unharmed. “Yeah. This is real,” is Goro’s reply, and even hearing his voice is a relief. Akira had almost forgotten the exact tone of it until he came to this palace.

“Prove it.”

Goro’s eyes narrowed, but eventually he shrugged, “That’s fair. But perhaps first you can tell me why you’re still wearing those fake glasses? I thought we were done with those.” Akira slid into the chair next to Goro and shrugged his shoulders, equally as unhelpful. “That was before you died.”

Which was, shockingly enough, the _wrong_ thing to say.

Goro scoffed, “So you changed your entire worldview and regressed because I got myself shot? Was it really so simple for you to just give up on your morals because I was no longer around to hold your hand? That’s bullshit and beneath you, Kurusu, and you know it.” He spoke with a growl that could shift mountains in deference to his anger. He spoke with a scorn that Akira knew by heart, and any and all doubts of Goro’s existence fly out the window. Not even Akira could anticipate Goro’s behavior, so no cognition of him could ever be perfect, and none of his friends and allies ever had the gall to call him out so forcefully, and so easily. Akira simply let out a shaking breath and shook his head.

“What else was I supposed to do? Just let you go? You think I could just do that?”

“Yes! I didn’t give you the choice. I made my decision. I prioritized your life over mine.”

“Why? You seemed so ready to just fucking shoot me.”

Goro flinched at that and gave him a _sour_ look. It seemed to mollify him, at least a little, and he scoffs, “... Some reunion we’re making this out to be.”

“We didn’t have a lot of time to talk this out.”

Goro tilted his head, gloveless fingers tapping on the bar counter. “No. I don’t suppose we did.” Everything happened so slowly, and yet so fast. They knew months in advance what would happen, but once Sae’s palace infiltration came to an end, it felt like the blink of an eye was all it took to put that shutter between him and the one he loved most. Silence seemed to stretch onwards, before Goro took a breath, “I… Didn’t think anyone would make such a big deal of mourning me, least of all you.”

Akira peered up at Goro over the rim of his glasses, his heart clenched in his chest with a force that made him believe for a moment that it would pop between his lungs. “I’m sorry- what?” He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, so choppy and breathless, but it hung in the space between them, already said. Goro sighed, that sour look crossing his face again. “I tried to kill you. What would it matter to you if I died? Isn’t that the biggest wrong you could ever do to someone?” Akira thought back to the last room in this palace he’d experienced, the writing on the wall and the voices that rang in his ears like bells. “I don’t think you wanted to kill me in the first place. If you won’t let me bullshit you, then don’t bullshit me.”

They fell silent again, for just a few moments. It was a tense silence, where Akira could watch Goro count the value of his words. “Fine. Then let’s not bullshit each other anymore,” Goro offered, turning in his stool to face Akira fully, that bright determination in his eyes that had so enthralled the raven. “Let’s be done with the bullshit, once and for all.” Goro reached forward with both hands, and Akira wasn’t sure what he was going to do until soft fingers grip the temples of his glasses.

Goro gave Akira ample time to stop him. To pull his face or Goro’s hands away and tell him no. Maybe it was the tenderness of the action that initially stopped him from acting, but right as Akira felt the tips begin to slide off his ears, Akira began to panic. What if Goro disappeared? What if he wasn’t ready to face a world without Goro without his mask?

The glasses were almost off his face when Akira’s fingers stopped Goro.

Goro made a disappointed face at him, “What? Are you scared?” His voice was quiet, but still terse. Akira knew what Goro wanted. He wanted no reservations between them. He wanted honesty, and that had to come without masks between them. Was he scared of that? Of being that vulnerable in a situation of uncertainty?

Yes.

The glasses slid back onto Akira’s face, and he mulled over his options. Was he willing to once again take the risk of taking this mask off only to not be able to save Goro in the end? All the implications of taking his mask off _again_ only to lose the only reason why he removed it in the first place? It had to be his decision, and no one else could make it for him. Goro seemed to realize that, as he allowed Akira all the time he needed right after nearly forcing the decision for him.

Perhaps it was time. A life without compromise, a life where he became more vocal about his feelings again. His grief. Where he could be vulnerable with someone and not be brushed off or dismissed. That… would be nice.

Akira’s delicate fingers slid over the temples of his glasses, and it felt a little like peeling porcelain from his face one more time as they slid off his nose. Goro perked up, as the glasses closed in the raven’s hands with the clack of finality and set on the bar counter between them.

An olive branch.

Goro looked between the glasses, and the raven that stared at him with determination. A sly smile crossed Goro’s lips, and Akira wondered for a second if he couldn’t just use this newfound momentum to slide off this stool and kiss that smirk right off Goro’s face. He didn’t move, though, and Goro nodded with satisfaction, “Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk freely.” It’s with this newly gained focus that Akira got a good look at Goro, and his eyes narrowed. He picked the glasses back up, and Goro rolled his eyes with a sigh, “Hey-”

“Hold on a second.” Akira looked in confusion as he opened up his glasses and held them in front of his face. Through his frames, Goro looked well. He didn’t look tired, he didn’t look injured, he looked… perfectly fine. When Akira dropped the glasses just enough to see Goro, he decidedly did _not_ look fine.

“You look like shit.”

Goro scoffed at Akira’s frankness, “How kind of you to say.” Akira shook his head and put his glasses back down again, “No- really, you look different with my glasses on.” Goro’s shirt was rumpled, torn in places along his sleeve and a couple buttons that had been lost. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his hair was unkempt- not that it ever looked perfectly kept to begin with, but this looked like he hadn’t brushed it in ages. Goro slid forward a little, propping his head up on his hand, “That could be because of the palace. Your glasses show you what you think you want to see.” There were bruises around Goro’s wrists, and they looked like rope or… handcuffs. “Where have you been all this time?” Akira sat the glasses back down, and Goro seemed to relax at that. He frowned at the question, though, and shrugged, “I’ve been here. What does it look like I’ve been doing? Fiddling while Rome burns?”

“I thought we agreed no more bullshit.”

“We did- that was a bullshit question.”

Akira narrowed his eyes, “Alright, smartass. How about you give me honest answers this time so I can actually _help you_.” Goro smirked and sat back up, fully facing Akira and leaning back in his chair. “... I do love to see it. That confidence in you.”

That had to be the first time Akechi Goro had _actually_ complimented him to his face, genuinely and without that made-for-TV plastic grin. Goro waved his hand out to gesture to the rest of the cafe, “Welcome to my palace. Or I think that’s what this is. It’s unlike any palace I’ve ever seen.” Akira couldn’t take his eyes away from the bruises around Goro’s wrists. He noticed the staring immediately- of course he did -but in typical Goro fashion he didn’t comment on them. Akira clenched his hands against his pant legs. He respected Goro’s space, he did. But they promised not to bullshit anymore.

“What happened to you?”

Akira reached out to gesture for Goro’s arm. He won’t just _take_ Goro’s injured arm to look at it and prod the deep bruise. If he’s going to be allowed to touch, he would much rather the permission come from the man himself. Much to Akira’s surprise, Goro handed over his arm after a moment of hesitation. “To be honest… I have no idea.” Goro began as Akira gently took Goro’s arm by the elbow to bend it out so he could run his fingers along the skin just outside the violent and grassy green hues. “I faced the shadow, we drew our guns, I remember pulling the trigger and… I woke up here. It felt like I was asleep for some time, and I don’t remember what happened in the middle of it.”

“If this palace is right in the things they show me, I might know more,” Akira mumbled as he turned Goro’s wrist around to see the soft underside. These bruises… “You survived, somehow, and the ship flooded as it collapsed. You brought out a Goho-M, but I don’t think you used it.”

“I did have one of those on me,” Goro hummed, “It’s likely. But like I said, I don’t remember much. I don’t even know how long it’s been. Time moves very slowly here. It’s felt like years…” That could also be because there were no clocks here, or any way to tell the time in the Metaverse. Akira’s heart broke in his chest, knowing that Goro has been stuck here, alone all this time.

“It’s… been months.” Goro seemed to take that information like a champ. A deep inhale and a sharp nod, “I’d figured it had been some time.” Since he’d been given permission to touch, Akira peered behind the veil of caramel hair at the ear in the path of the bullet that had been trapped in his helmet. Thanks to the design of the helmet collapsing over his ears, the ear was fine. However his temple was angry and there was a divot in his sideburn from the scar. It was easily covered by the rest of his hair, though, and Goro carefully extracted his face from where Akira’s fingers had pulled back his hair.

“I kept our promise.”

Goro’s delicate eyebrow lifted, surprise crossing his face in the most minute and silent fashion. “Did you..?” Akira nodded with determination, like it was the only thing that mattered that Akira had fulfilled Goro’s dying wish. “He broke down into tears on national television and went to jail. He was sentenced to twenty years for nearly everything under the sun.” The look on Goro’s face told Akira something. He seemed to know, just by looking into Akira’s eyes, what all it took to get that conviction.

“How long?”

He wasn’t asking Akira to repeat Shido’s sentence. He knew that. He knew exactly what Goro wanted to hear.

“... Two months. From Christmas to nearly Valentine’s Day.” Goro sighed heavily and sat back in his chair, and Akira continued, “It was the only way to get the charges to stick.” Goro shook his head and frowned, “I know. You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I wasn’t around to turn myself in like I’d intended, and something had to be done, I just… Wish that wasn’t put on you, that’s all.”

They fell back into silence, though Goro looked like he was in the process of mulling over all of his decisions and life choices. Akira couldn’t say he blamed him. It was this kind of tension, though, that he hated. He hated how it took what should have been a good reunion and made it churn at his stomach, stuff up his throat with lumps that are hard to talk through, and made him wonder what the merits were of saving Goro if this was what he thought he deserved. Akira took the curls in front of his face between his index and his thumb and twirled, and after a moment of silence, Akira had an idea.

“I also shot god.”

Goro sputtered.

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Mmhm. In the face.”

“What!?”

“With a _massive_ persona. It was pretty great.” Just like that, the tension and the silence had popped like a balloon and two boys who never knew what to genuinely say to one another were thrown into a wild tale as Akira regaled Goro with all the detective missed while he was trapped here at this palace.

Akira kept nothing secret. He told Goro _everything_. Shido’s defeat, Yaldabaoth, the game that Igor and Yaldabaoth played with their lives. Goro made a sour face at that, like Akira had expected he would. “I can’t stand that,” he complained, “It’s despicable, using us for their little game. Just to prove humanity was capable of governing itself. The jury’s still out on that one in my opinion…”

“Fair enough.” There were still bad people in the world- and a lot of them. Akira wasn’t really sure what a full Metaverse destruction would avail humanity if they just… built a new one.

“So that’s what I missed..?” Goro asked thoughtfully, contemplating all he’d heard. “Yeah. I went to jail after that, then when I was released I went home to finish high school there.”

“That seems unnecessary,” Goro huffed, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms over his chest, “Why transfer schools _again_ when you were perfectly happy here?” Akira tilted his head to the side in thought- it was a good question. “I… think I just need to settle things at home. I went back and wasn’t back for more than a couple days before I came back to Leblanc. My parents are… less than happy to see me again.” The look that Goro gave Akira was a telling one: a disgusted, hateful look pointed in the metaphorical direction of his parents. He seemed to understand, in that way Goro did when he understood Akira without the need for very many words.

Akira’s eyes draw back to the bruises again, and he watches them carefully. Grassy greens, vibrant purples, and sickly yellows that stained his once pristine skin. Goro had been _beaten_. Viciously. “You look like you want to say something,” Goro observed, drawing his eyes up to meet Akira’s own gray depths, “Say it.” There were many things Akira wanted to say, and none of them were exactly good. He saw what asking what happened got him, as Goro redirected the subject. He knew Goro won’t accept pity, even though Akira can definitely sympathize in his pain, and he knew it was hard for Goro to differentiate between sympathy and pity as he wasn’t used to either of them. So Akira decided on a wholly different approach:

“Who did this to you?”

Goro’s face morphed. His neutral, almost challenging expression turned sour, like it had twice already when Akira tried to confront him. Then it turned bitter, and then… It settled on sadness. Akira did _not_ expect that out of Goro. Bitterness, sure. But _sadness_?

“Do you know why I brought you here? To this room, tonight?”

Akira shook his head, and he didn’t understand what that had to do with his question, but he’ll wait and see. This might just be another tactic for Goro to change the subject, but he isn’t escaping this one. Akira planned to keep asking until he got answers. “I brought you here because you aren’t fucking _sleeping_.” Goro said with something like venom in his voice. “This place… Everything has a _price._ I’ve never seen a Palace like this one. It’s _my_ Palace, but I don’t control it. If I controlled it, I think it would look a lot different. But something else rules here, and so to get something, you have to _give_ something. You come here, you don’t get sleep. I pulled you into this room to give you a safe place. You’ll wake up rested, and you’ll feel better.”

Akira thought about that. Thought long and hard. The blanket, this moment of sleep… He thought back to Joker telling him that those gifts he’d been given were not _free_. “Goro,” Akira mumbled softly, running his eyes over a green bruise. “The blanket… Did someone beat you in order for me to have that?” It churned his stomach to think about- that Goro would even _consider_ being subjected to violence just so Akira could have comfort and warmth. Goro, thankfully, shakes his head in the negative. “These are from something else. I did pay a price for that blanket, but these injuries had nothing to do with it.” Well, that was somewhat good news. On one hand, he wouldn’t want Goro to suffer like that just to give him something. On the other hand, he still doesn’t know what caused such horrible bruises.

“So… What did it cost?”

Goro had a pensive look on his face- like he wanted to tell Akira, but didn’t know how. He took a moment to choose his words carefully. Finally, after a few moments of silence he began to open his mouth, as if he were about to answer Akira, when the first rays of dawn began to peek out from the windows. There was no period of blue light here- just before the sun carried over the horizon. There was simply yellow, and the beginning of the day. Goro turned his head to look at it, and he frowned. That look filled Akira with a certain kind of panic as he realized the situation.

Their time was up, and Akira had to leave.

“Will I see you again?” Akira asked, and truthfully the words came out far more vulnerable than Akira had intended, but he couldn’t bring the air that gave them life back into his lungs and reverse the words. Instead, he met Goro’s wine-red eyes with his own and he left the silent plea in his eyes for the brunet to process. “... Yes,” He eventually spoke, just as vulnerable in that single syllable, “But not until you figure out the rest of this place. I don’t know how many more nights like this I can buy you.”

“I’m not asking you to do that.” Akira’s voice turned firm, even as he reached for his glasses. He can’t leave without them- even in a dream. “As if I _need_ you to ask me to do anything,” Goro sneered back, but it felt weak. Akira understood, as he tended to do with Goro’s aloof and cobbled together coldness- Akira needn’t ask, because Goro _wants_ to help him. “I would really prefer you didn’t. Do you think I like seeing you suffer like this for my sake?” Akira huffed- if Goro wanted to hiss and claw at him, Akira will give right back what he’s given.

“Do _you_ think I like seeing you neglect yourself? Take better care of yourself and I won’t _have_ to help you.” Goro glared at him through his messy bangs and flushed cheeks and Akira could only smile- weak but soft, simply there to support the two of them with all the hope he could muster, shamefully scant as it was. “Alright. I will.”

“You had _better_.” Is all Goro said in return, but Akira had already begun to fade from this dream, and it was all he could do to register the somewhat fond, exasperated words.

Goro sat in silence for a while longer, watching the dawn as it lit up the rain and made it glitter on the windows and door of the cafe. Silence pervaded the space as he waited until Akira had safely woken up from his dreams, leaving Goro very much alone in this prison of a palace.

He always came for Goro when Goro was on his own.

There was no audible warning to his presence- there never was. No creak of the old, hardwood floor. No weight being put on any step. No slip of fabric as he slid into a booth seat. This ghost haunted him wherever he went. Anywhere he was _allowed_ to go, the ghost went with him. The weightless spectre of his guilt. The last thing he ever wanted to see ever again, and he was cursed with its sight daily. A fitting punishment for a soul trapped in limbo, wasn’t it?

“ **Are you ready to go?** ” The voice asked him, and Goro cringed. How dare it? How dare this creature torture him with such a pleasant tone in _that_ voice!? Goro wanted to turn around in his seat and claw his eyes out of his skull. To grasp the man by the hair and slam his head down onto the table and _scream_ at him that he had _enough of this_. To fuck off, and leave him to his Hell in _peace_. But Goro also knew that to attack this wraith was folly. He had already tried, the first moment that he could, to destroy the apparition with seething rage and all he got in return were the bruises covering his skin.

As it happened, Goro appeared to be completely incapable of finishing the job he had started.

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with so you can finally leave me the fuck alone,” Goro grumbled, sliding from his stool to gather his coat and gloves. The gloves are always on around the spectre, even though he hasn’t touched Goro since that first day. This thing will never have the privilege of Goro taking down his guard. If ever there were a true master of this palace, it’s this horrible demon. He’s always sitting on something- almost always at a table. Goro thinks it’s to get back at him, but more rationally he thinks it’s because of the apparition’s structure itself. Goro was also unsure which one of them was the one that made it- Goro or Akira- but given that the cognition is always following _him_ around, Goro can make a very good and educated guess.

“ **There’s no need to be so harsh. It’s only a day you’ve already lived.** ” The man tries to placate Goro, even though it sounds encrusted with sugar and false sweetness, “ **And you know you can’t make me leave no matter what you do. So what’s the point of this struggle? Still think I’ll just… _get up and leave_? Even if I wanted to, I can’t do that.**” Sure he couldn’t. Goro had made sure of that. “Whatever,” He huffed, heading towards the door of the cafe, “Do your worst.” The price had to be paid after all, for the service that had been rendered.

“ **Oh don’t you worry, I will.** ”

Goro’s hand twisted the knob of the cafe’s door and when he stepped out into what should have been the rainy alleyway in front of Leblanc, he was greeted with the sight of a busy street.

Ah.

This one.

Goro was not surprised, but… he still wasn’t pleased that he would have to see this. It was a busy sidewalk in Shibuya, and he wasn’t two steps outside of the cafe before he was swept up in the throng of people going about their days. None of the civilians had faces, just a blank expanse of skin where their features should be. Some even wore face masks that covered nothing but a plain, empty face. It gave Goro the chills, to make eye contact with someone who looked directly at him without any eyes to see from, or a mouth to give a small, absent smile out of common courtesy. They would give him a tiny bow as they passed, and then they would dissolve into the minutiae of the crowd.

The sidewalk seemed to stretch into eternity, though Goro could see the street corner from there. The loud chatter of passerby and faceless guests at open dining areas along the sidewalk, the TV ads playing from tall screens mounted on the side of buildings. The honk of car horns and the rumble of engines- the white noise of city life. All of it rang around Goro’s ears as he got ever closer to the street corner. He remembered this day- it was very bright outside, and that familiar curl of dread returned to his stomach one more time. Goro did not remember this day fondly.

His head was pounding, and he knew why. It was the exhaustion of carrying this for over a day when his brain wasn’t used to it yet. That strength would come with time, after each one it would build up and his brain would resist.

One after the other.

Then another, and then another.

Goro came to a stop at the street corner. For two or three lights, he simply stood there. They weren’t there to cross the street after all, they were there to _wait._ Hands settled like brands on his shoulders, locking him in place. Goro wanted to move, and in fact he tried, but the iron grip of those hands prevented him from moving a single inch.

“Let me go,” Goro seethed through his teeth to the wicked man behind him. “You’re not part of this fucking story anymore- so let me go, and let me see my guilt in _peace._ ” Was this something he had to endure too? There was a low chuckle by his ear and Goro would give _anything_ to be able to turn around and punch that chuckling bastard in the fucking face. Instead of any kind of reprieve, any kind of freedom of movement where he could perhaps turn away from this oncoming disaster, Goro was frozen in place. Unable to move his body or his head without it being wrenched back into place by the hands at his shoulders, Goro was doomed to stand there and wait.

Just like back then, Shido was going to make him _watch_.

Goro’s head pounded in a way that made a migraine look like a minor inconvenience. The sidewalk and all of the passing by pedestrians began to spin, and he knew that if it didn’t happen soon, he would pass out right here on the sidewalk. Only, that moment never seemed to come for him. Goro felt suspended in that moment, his stomach continuously dropping out to his feet, the nausea and the pounding of his head lasting for a miniature eternity.

Was this his punishment? His price? To wait here, knowing what was supposed to be happening next, but it never came? Goro wouldn’t put it past the cruel, fucked-up mind of his prison warden to come up with something as cruel as this.

Goro began to wonder at the passage of time. How long had it been? Five rounds of street lights? Six? No, most assuredly seven, right? Goro huffed and sweated and groaned as he felt worse, more sick and awful. He couldn’t hold it for this long- he shouldn’t- when was it going to _fucking_ happen!?

Just as Goro had begun to believe this would be his torment for an unspecified length of time- he saw it. A shock of long, red hair, weaving between the crowd. It was time. Goro remembered this moment happening _much_ faster than it curled around his cognition at present. He remembered in spurts, loud swatches of color and sound that make up one blurry, distant memory. The first of many. The end of Goro’s naivete, bought and paid for with his own misdeeds.

He saw this moment unfold in slow motion now, as his headache eased behind his eyes and Goro’s breath shuddered. With that breath, he _let go_ of the very thing he was holding in his head this whole time. No one had yet asked _how_ it was Goro was able to hold off the death of the shadows affecting their human, real world counterparts. The cost came from him- the price was always one that Goro alone had to bear. Was it causing him brain damage? Did he care? Until recently… No. However, given current events, he’s found that he _does_ care, and it was all Akira’s fault. Because of course it was.

The light changed from red to blue and the pedestrians started moving. Goro grit his teeth, biting at his tongue. Words bubble up and sit at the back of his throat like a hard lump that made it difficult for him to breathe. _Stop her! Pay attention! Move her away from the curb!_ This was only a cognition, a simple memory playing before his eyes. Yet watching this moment unfold once again felt so heavy on Goro’s shoulders. What he didn’t understand was why he wanted to shout out to them. It wasn’t like they would hear him, and he can’t go back in time and stop things that happened two years ago. If Goro was really dead, and this was his hell, then why did he want to say something? The act would be useless, and it wouldn’t bring him any peace. So Goro bit his tongue, and he remained silent. The light turned from blue to red at the crosswalk, and the pedestrians stopped. Goro could see them, plain as day, standing at the street corner.

Goro could see the precise moment Isshiki Wakaba began to _wobble._

Goro watched as Isshiki began to list forward first, and bring her hand to her head. It’s like slow motion as Goro tilted his head to the side as much as he could in Shido’s restrictive grasp and he saw it- a black car that had belonged to some unnamed businessman with a paid driver. When Goro remembered the vehicle, he simply remembered it as a black blurr. He had turned his head to look away from what had transpired. But here, in this punishment, all he could do was watch the event transpire in slow motion. He looked to Futaba, and a cold stone settled in his stomach. Futaba simply watched on, her face devoid of emotion and expression. Perhaps it was because he knew her that he could recall her face in this dream, but Goro wasn’t sure if he would prefer to see her with her face or not, given the alternative.

He could hear the slowed-down screech of the tires as one high heel stepped in front of the other and Wakaba’s unsteady feet breached the safety of the sidewalk. A rubbery, burning smell cloyed his senses from the forceful break of the wheels on asphalt, but it was far too late for the car to stop itself in time. But then, in a strange twist of events, Wakaba looked up from the hands that cradled her head. In her peril, Wakaba had looked across the street at them- at Shido holding Goro’s shoulders, and Goro looking on in horror.

Goro was very well aware of what his mental shutdowns did to his victims. Very rare was the shutdown that single-handedly resulted in death. It was far more common that the victim would stumble into traffic, cause some kind of accident, or some other action that would kill them. He was even aware that he had a survivor- a reporter that was being treated in a mental hospital for having survived Goro’s power. He had watched on TV as Okumura Kunikazu spat necrotic, black brain matter and leaked it from every orifice in his head. That wasn’t uncommon, but the volume that Okumura expelled was… excessive. But he wasn’t prepared for Wakaba. Goro was absolutely not prepared to witness that.

Isshiki had looked up, black tissue leaking from her nose and the corners of her eyes, and she _smiled at him._

Almost as quickly as Goro realized what she was doing, it was over. He watched as Wakaba caved inwards to the left as she was struck from the knees, and how her body failed to tuck inwards or roll. Instead she landed flat on her side on the hood of the car, and her elbow made contact with the hood ornament of the car _before_ she fell with the push of momentum and the pull of gravity onto the pavement and the car rolled over her.

In slow motion Goro had to listen to that sickening, crunching sound of bone under the tires of the car that had hit Wakaba Isshiki. The car had skidded when the brakes were hit, and it wasn’t enough to stop the forward momentum of the car in its place, so it had carried and subsequently rolled over Isshiki for at least twenty feet. The sweeping path of dark red blood left trailing after the vehicle seemed to shimmer in the sunlight on the pavement in front of Goro’s eyes. It was a strange feeling- that _this_ was supposed to be the guilt that Goro had to pay for his night alone with Akira. Guilt is a very difficult thing for him to process. Whether he should feel it as a result of his actions or not- Goro has never understood. He did not _feel_ a sense of guilt at watching this scene unfold before him, but he does remember in the vague recesses of his memory, that this did make him _feel something_.

At the time, it simply could have been terror. Goro wasn’t sure that his skill could kill someone outright, but he had also never witnessed a human die firsthand. For someone who had always wanted to be a hero, being directly responsible for someone’s death sat sour at the back of his tongue as his brain fought to process what he had done. That day was the end of that innocent boy who believed he could save the world, and that the world was worth saving. The brutal and unrepentant murder of a boy who believed in good for the sake of good, and justice for justice’s sake. Perhaps… That was the point of this.

Goro was guilty of two deaths on this day, and only one of them bled.

“Are you done now?” Goro brashly growled under his breath, all venom and spitting ire.

“ _ **Yes. Perhaps I am satisfied. For today.**_ ” It was like a shitty PA announcement, crackled and garbled, and it rang out through the memory as it began to dissolve around him. The hands on his shoulders pulled him backwards, now no longer Shido’s. No. These fingers were far more thin, a little calloused as opposed to his father’s who had used expensive moisturizer every day. With surprising strength, they dragged him backwards and he let out a surprised breath as Goro’s ass hit a chair and his hands were pulled behind him.

Goro had long since stopped resisting.

This Palace had made a toy of him for so long, Goro had seen the ins and outs of it a thousand times. Dragged room from room, shown every horrible choice he had ever made, every shitty decision, every lie, every _guilt_. After each one, he’s always put back in this chair. In this familiar space with its perpetually dusty shelves and creaking wood floors. Goro thinks he can count the minutes by the chime of the glass charm in the window frame.

This must be the top.

“ **I’m amazed. Usually I get more of a… pissy response out of you.** ”

The seat of the Palace’s distortion.

“Fuck off. I don’t owe you anything- much less the satisfaction of meeting your expectations.”

It _has to be,_ because this singular room makes all the living hell going on downstairs look like a Halloween Special on a childrens’ TV program.

The source of Goro’s ire made his way around from behind the chair to the table in front of him. It’s always that fucking table. They used it, a couple times, when everyone was over for meetings, or for studying when the downstairs was open for business. Right now, the table was pulled out enough to fit a chair comfortably on the other side, and across the table they sat and stared at each other. Goro’s hands were restrained behind him and he could not move from this chair. He had tried. It… did not end well for him, at all. His jaw still hurts from the punch across his face.

“ **Oh? How disappointing. I thought meeting my expectations was _incredibly_ important to you? If it didn’t matter so much what I thought of you, then why are we here?**”

Goro looked up at the spectre. The haunting face of his greatest regret. Compared to this? Everything else meant nothing to him. Okumura, Wakaba, the train driver- Goro did not feel an ounce of remorse, though he supposed this Palace was making an earnest attempt to force him to feel that guilt.

Goro could not find a way out of this Palace. He did not have a Goho-M, he did not leave this room without being escorted. The stairs here descended into nothing. For the entire time Goro has been dead, the whole time he thought he was in Hell, Goro had been sitting in this chair.

Across from the spitting image of Kurusu Akira, still bleeding from the hole in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did break my pattern of like... "Daytime/Nighttime" activity but I thought it was important to showcase exactly what Goro has to go through when Akira isn't here, and it's a little bit of a hint towards the true nature of the Palace. Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Until next time~!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! I'm very nervous about this one because it's something new, and I just hope I do the idea in my head justice.
> 
> Looking for me on Tumblr? I am Pastel-Didactic!


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